


To Be a Magister

by sbdrag



Series: Of Magisters and Elves [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Altus, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon Trans Character, Character building, Circle Tower - Freeform, Circle of Magi, Dalish, Elves, Mages, Magic, Magic-Users, Minrathous, Mortalitasi, Necromancy, Qarinus, Qunari, Slavery, Tevinter, Tevinter Imperium, and might do off-shoots for them, i couldn't resist having mae and dorian as teenagers, it IS tevinter, it mostly takes place in tevinter and random ruins so odds are good they'll be minor, it's all ocs for a while here, may contain spoilers for any/all games, probably because i can, still makes me feel icky, title has more to do with later events than beginning, why did i tag all my ocs?, will eventually have some canon characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4493094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sbdrag/pseuds/sbdrag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magister Euphemia Drusus should never have been given her father's position, given all that was against her. Bastard daughter of a half Dalish crop merchant, behind three legitimate siblings, it seemed a very long run that she would make the position. Especially given her penchant for speaking her mind and freeing slaves. And yet, here she was.</p><p>This is the story of how she made it there.</p><p>(Name changed because this story has changed so much form what I originally planned that the original title no longer fits.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Magic

Rowan looked at herself in the puddle.  _ Skinny _ , she thought. She looked over at her mother. Her mother was skinny, too. With ears that pointed, though they weren’t really elven ears. Rowan knew they weren’t, because she had seen real elven ears. Her mother’s were much too small. Rowan looked into the puddle again, pushing back her hair to examine her ears. It wasn’t blonde, like her mother’s, but black. And her ears were maybe a  _ little _ pointed. If only a little. Which made Rowan sad. She  _ liked _ elf ears. She thought they were more interesting than human ones. She didn’t even have her mother’s pretty green eyes. Instead, her’s were brown. Well, maybe a little yellow. Like honey.

“Rowan!  _ Come here, child _ ,” her mother, Haryelle, called in affectionate (if exasperated) Antivan. Her daughter, she was soon learning, was one of a kind. The wonder of the university of Markham before her, and she stares into a puddle. One which has wet the end of her long tunic with mud. Haryelle eyed it with a raised brow, but it was, however, the point of the tunic. Rowan often, in one way or another, managed to dirty her clothes. Even on the most inane of trips. It was why she was wearing a plain tunic and similarly homespun trousers. The boots were hand me downs from a neighbor’s son, but they seemed to suit her odd child. “ _ What were you looking at?” _

_ “Me,” _ the girl replied, tucking her hair behind her ears. 

Haryelle smoothed it; after the first time her adventurous daughter had gotten her hair caught in a bramble, she had started cutting it short. And Rowan was due to have it trimmed,  _ “And why, little sparrow, were you looking at yourself?” _ Haryelle raised a brow. She had not brought her daughter to Markham to look at herself, merely to show her a place other than home. 

Rowan took her hand as they walked the streets, unhurried,  _ “Why don’t I look like you, mother?”  _

Haryelle hummed,  _ “Because you look like your father,” _ she hoped Rowan would ask no further. She had always planned to tell Rowan about her father, but when she was older. 

_ “So he has brown eyes and black hair and human ears?” _ her daughter asked. 

Haryelle tousled Rowan’s hair.  _ “Yes. Well, actually, no. Your father has blue eyes,” _ it sometimes struck her, the way her daughter wouldn’t ask the questions she thought she was going to ask.

_ “Then why do I have brown eyes?” _ Rowan asked. 

_ “Because your grandfather has brown eyes,” _ Haryelle said. 

Rowan tilted her head, considering, it seemed.  _ “Why haven’t I met them?” _

Haryelle sighed, and took her daughter to a booth selling candied apples. It was her daughter’s favorite, which they both well knew. 

Happily munching her apple, Rowan let her mother find them a place to sit. It was a warm day, and they sat in the shade of a building. 

“Listen, little sparrow,” Haryelle said, switching to common, “Your grandfather and I… well, we do not get along. We had an argument, and said some mean things to each other. I have not spoken to him since.”

“Why not?” Rowan asked. 

Haryelle tutted as she watched the candy sauce getting all over her daughter’s cheeks and chin, “Because I am afraid he will still be angry.”  

Rowan considered this, then nodded, “So what about my father?”  

Haryelle sighed again, “Your father… well, we don’t love each other.”  

Rowan blinked, pausing her eating. 

Haryelle leaned down, smiling, “Your father has a wife, and other children. We did adult things together, for fun. And the only good thing it gave me was you.”

“Ok,” Rowan said, and returned to her apple. 

Haryelle chuckled, and tousled her daughter’s hair. 

“Excuse me, serah.”

Haryelle rose, turning to the person who had spoken. 

It was a templar, two of his fellows with him. 

“Yes, Messere?” she asked. 

The man smiled, “No need for that, serah. I merely wanted to ask if you had seen this man,” the templar handed her a sketch of an elven man. 

She looked it over carefully, then shook her head, “No, I have not,” she said, handing the sketch back, “Is he dangerous?”

“Probably not,” the templar admitted. “But he is suspected of being an apostate.”

“Well, I have not seen him,” Haryelle said. “Good luck, serah templar.”

“Thank you, serah,” the man said, moving on. He smiled at Rowan, who watched the armored men curiously. 

_ “What’s an apostate?” _ she asked. 

Haryelle bent down again.  _ “A mage outside the Circle.” _

_ “What’s a mage?”  _ Rowan asked. 

_ “Someone that can use magic,” _ Haryelle said.  _ “Like the healer.” _

In one of her adventurous forays, Rowan had once broken her arm. Haryelle had taken her to a clinic the Circle in Ansburg, their home, ran. She was friends with one of the healers, a woman named Carrie. She’d been more than happy to heal the bone.

_ “Oh,” _ Rowan said.  _ “I can do that.” _

Haryelle felt her blood run cold. 

Rowan watched as the color drained from her mother’s face, and knew something was wrong. She had only seen it happen once before, when she found Rowan in a tavern. 

_ “You can do what, little sparrow?”  _ she asked. 

Rowan tilted her head. 

She hoped she was wrong, that her daughter misunderstood.  _ Maker _ , she hoped she was wrong. 

_ “Magic, like the healer,” _ she said. 

Haryelle swallowed. The templars were still nearby, asking others if they had seen the apostate. She eyed them, then carefully stood, trying not to give away her fear. She had wondered, of course. Why Rowan no longer came home covered in scrapes and bruises. She supposed she should have known. Her father was a mage. Her grandfather was a mage. It had missed Haryelle, and she had thought it had missed her daughter, too.

Rowan was quiet, taking her mother’s shaking hand as they walked away. They were headed towards the inn. She sat on the bed as her mother started packing. She had thought they were staying longer, but didn’t ask. She figured they were leaving because of magic. That was when her mother had started acting scared, after all.  _ “Are we going home?” _

Haryelle sighed. She paused packing, and went to kiss her daughter on the forehead,  _ “No, little sparrow. We’re going to meet your grandfather.” _

_ “Why?” _

_ “So he can teach you,” _ she said.  _ I hope _ .

 

* * *

 

Haryelle was unused to roving the countryside, but there was little else she could do. Rowan seemed to be enjoying herself, exploring and roving. Her mother sighed, panting and pushing sweat damp hair out of her face. In the latest little town they’d been through, she’d heard of Dalish in the area. She hoped it was the right tribe. Maker, she couldn’t take much more of this. 

Rowan had followed a fennec a bit further than she’d meant, and started when an arrow whistled out of the air to hit the small animal in the torso, taking it off it’s feet. Rowan approached it in surprise. It panted, whining. The girl tilted her head, and reached for the arrow.

“Leave it, shem,” a woman said. 

Rowan looked up in surprise. 

The elf glared at her, bow lowered, but knocked. 

Haryelle was there in a minute of frantic running, scooping Rowan into her arms. 

The elf looked at her in surprise, but still kept the bow knocked. 

“Andaran atish’an,” Haryelle said, trying to hide her panic, “Is your Keeper Everyn?”

“What’s it to you, flat-ear?” the elf asked. Deciding they weren’t a threat, she put away her bow, instead approaching and drawing a dagger. 

Haryelle moved to keep some distance between them, “He’s my father.”  

That gave the elf paused as she leaned down, then continued. She used the dagger to kill the fennec, and added it to the three others on her belt. When she rose, she crossed her arms, “You accuse the Keeper of having a child with a shemlan?”  

Haryelle sighed quietly, “Listen, you don’t have to believe me. But… please, if your Keeper  _ is _ Everyn, tell him his daughter Haryelle is… that I need his help. Please.”

The elf regarded her stonily. After sometime, she turned, “Wait here,” she disappeared into the trees like a ghost. 

Haryelle sighed in relief, and sat on a tree. 

Rowan watched after the elf, then looked at her mother, “Why did she kill the fennec?”

“For food, and fur,” Haryelle said. 

Rowan blinked, “Food?” 

“Yes, meat is made from animals,” Haryelle said, “As is fur.” 

Rowan nodded slowly, “Is that why we don’t eat it?”

Haryelle laughed, “That, and plants are cheaper.” 

She was a merchant, one that traded in agriculture. She wasn’t especially wealthy, but she did well by herself and her daughter. Then she tensed as she heard rustling, and another elf emerged.

He was older, hair short and graying. He carried a staff, and carried himself proudly. 

What struck Rowan was his eyes. They were the same color as hers exactly. 

“Haryelle,” he said, and approached slowly, sitting down next to them. “And who is this?”

“Rowan,” Haryelle said. “My… your granddaughter.”

Rowan examined her grandfather. He had tattoos on his face, like the other elf had. There was something kind about the lines around his eyes, and the set of his mouth. He smile at her, softly.

“Andaran atish’an, da’len,” he said. 

“What does that mean?” the girl asked. 

Everyn laughed, “It is a greeting. Your mother has neglected to teach you your Dalish roots, I see.”

“I thought it would be… easier, for her, in the city,” Haryelle said. She smoothed Rowan’s hair. “She doesn’t look elven. People wouldn’t…”

Everyn put a hand over his daughter’s. 

She looked at him.

The old elf smiled, “I understand, daughter mine.” 

Haryelle smiled weakly herself. 

“Petra said you needed my help.”

Haryelle took a deep breath. This was going to be hard, “Rowan… she’s a mage,” since her daughter had told her, she had since seen her heal herself, and small animals they came across, “And her father… he’s a magister.”

For a few long moments, Everyn said nothing. 

Haryelle held her breath, waiting. 

“What happened?” he asked, finally. 

“I… I knew it was… stupid, but… he was charming. At first. And I thought… maybe it could help me get trade into Tevinter. More money,” Haryelle said, shaking her head. “Of course, I was only a passing amusement. He… he knows I have Rowan, and that she’s his, but… he doesn’t know she has magic. I only just found out myself.”

“And if he knows, he will take her,” Everyn said. 

Haryelle nodded. 

Her father put a hand on her shoulder. “I wronged you once, daughter mine, when I did not take you with me when your mother died.”

Haryelle looked up at him. She had been young then, a teenager. Her mother had been an Antivan merchant, and had met Everyn when he, a travelling apostate at the time, had saved her caravan from bandits. He had gone to Antiva with her, and they stayed in touch when he returned to his clan after the death of the last Keeper and their first. He had come to her funeral, but had refused to take Haryelle with him on the grounds that she was too human to be with the Dalish. She had been waiting years to hear he had accepted her.

“It’s alright,” she said, hugging her daughter with a sad smile. “If I had been with the clan, I wouldn’t have had Rowan.”

Everyn smiled, and wrapped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. That, at least he could understand. He had regretted the words he’d said that day immediately, but had been too proud to admit it then. Experience and mistakes had worn that, but had thought perhaps his daughter was better off without her Dalish apostate father. He rose, “Come, we will talk at the camp.” 

Haryelle seemed about to object, then nodded, letting Rowan walk on her own. 

Everyn watched his granddaughter, the way she roamed and roved. She seemed to use magic effortlessly, without realizing it as she healed a cut or bruise. There was already him and his first in the clan, but he wasn’t going to turn away his granddaughter. Especially not to Tevinter, though he would have taken her in anyway.

The other Dalish regarded Haryelle and Rowan with suspicion, some with outright hostility. Haryelle picked her daughter up, as if she could shield her. Everyn guided them to his tent, near the center of camp. 

His First approached them on the way, “Keeper, is it…” he looked at the Keeper’s guests, “Is it true?”

“That Haryelle is my daughter?” Everyn asked, loud enough for others nearby to hear. “Yes, she is. And in her arms is my granddaughter, Rowan.”

Haryelle shrunk back behind her father, and the First joined them. 

Rowan looked around. All the elves here had tattoos, she noticed. All the adults, she amended, spying younger Dalish. It made her curious, and she wanted to explore. But her mother was still holding her, and she was tense again. So Rowan settled as her mother sat, knowing it would make her mother feel better. 

“Zeyn,” Everyn said, addressing his First. “Show the camp to Rowan; Haryelle and I need to speak.”

“... very well, Keeper,” Zeyn said. He approached the outsiders warily, like one might approach a spooked animal. 

Rowan looked up at her mother, who nodded. The girl pushed out of her lap, and looked up at the First expectantly. 

Zeyn looked at Everyn again, who gave him a stern look back. With a sigh, he placed a tentative hand on Rowan’s shoulder, leading her away. 

As the First took Rowan around the camp, explaining things like halla and aravels, Haryelle and Everyn talked at length. The other Dalish resigned themselves to the presence of outsiders. They assumed that they would leave and return to their shemlan cities soon enough. What they didn’t expect was when the Keeper called over one of the hunters and his First.

“Guide my daughter back to the city, Kalan,” Everyn said. 

Haryelle leaned down, hugging Rowan. She held her daughter at arms length, “You’re going to stay with your grandfather, little sparrow.”

“What about you?” Rowan asked. 

Haryelle smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “I’m going to go home. I… I can’t explain, right now. But… it’s to keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?” her daughter frowned. 

Haryelle kissed her forehead, “So many things, little sparrow. Just trust me, alright?”

“Ok.” 

Haryelle kissed her forehead again, then hugged her, “I love you, Rowan. Be good for your grandfather.”

“Love you too, mom,” Rowan hugged her back. 

Haryelle smoothed her hair back, then finally stood. 

Kalan wore a sour expression on his face, but led her away none the less. 

Rowan watched, saying nothing. She jumped when Everyn put a hand on her shoulder. 

He smiled down at her,  “Come with me, da’len.”

She followed him, and he gave her a wooden amulet carved to depict an elven woman. 

“This is Mythal. She is the Protector and All Mother. She will look after you when your mother can’t, and will carry your mother’s love to you.”

Rowan said nothing at first, then put the amulet on over her head. She looked down at it, and her grandfather tousled her hair. She looked up at him, and he smiled.

“Do you know about the Creators, da’len?” Everyn asked. 

Rowan shook her head, and they sat back down in front of the Keeper’s tent. 

“They are our gods. Ruled by Elgar’nan, the All Father, and Mythal. Their eldest children are the twins, Falon’Din and Dirthamen. Falon’Din guides the dead in the Beyond, and Dirthamen gave us the gift of knowledge. Andruil is the goddess of the hunt, and her sister, Sylaise, is the Hearthkeeper. Their brother is June, Master of Crafts. He taught us to make weapons to gather the gifts from Andruil. Ghilan’nain is the Mother of Halla. And then there is the Dread Wolf.”

“The Dread Wolf?” 

Everyn nodded, “The trickster. He betrayed the Creators and their enemies, the Forgotten Ones, and trapped them in their realms to keep them from the world,” he said. “This is why we lost Arlathan.”

Rowan tilted her head, “Arlathan?” 

“Our ancient home,” Everyn said. “Long, long ago, before the quickening.”

That night, the Keeper taught Rowan the history of the elves, and she listened in mostly quiet wonder. The rest of the clan tried to ignore her, but as she had the Keeper’s full attention, it was a difficult thing to do. 

Finally, when Rowan had fallen asleep, the First approached, “Do you really mean to keep her, Keeper?” 

Everyn sighed, but smiled, inviting Zeyn to sit, “I know you do not understand. She looks like a human, but there is Dalish blood in her. As there was in her mother, my daughter. And I left her, alone in a shemlan city. Because I did not look past her human mother, who I had loved. Because I had put one family before the other,” Rowan’s head rested on her grandfather’s leg, and he stroked her hair, “She is my blood, and she has the blood of the Dales. I will not make the same mistake again.”

“... why now, Keeper?” Zeyn asked, sitting across from Everyn. “Why did your daughter come to us now?”

“Because Rowan has magic,” the Keeper said. “And she needs a teacher.”

“Is that wise? There is already you and I, and Haren.”

“We will do what we must. There is… one more reason Haryelle came to me.”

Zeyn’s brows furrowed, “What is that?” 

Everyn considered, and then sighed, “Rowan’s father is a magister.” 

Zeyn stood in surprise, drawing the attention of the clan. He stared at Rowan as if she were a demon. 

Everyn gestured for his First to sit again. 

“A vint… you’re keeping a  _ vint _ ?” Zeyn asked, remaining standing. 

Everyn sighed, “She’s never even been to Tevinter. Nor has her mother. And she won’t, as long as she’s with us and out of reach of them.”

Zeyn stared for a long time, considering. 

At a point, Petra, the hunter that had found Haryelle and Rowan, brought food to the Keeper and his First. She regarded the sleeping child with a tilted head, “I will teach her the ways of Andruil,” she looked up at the Keeper, “Personally, I would rather snatch a mage from the vints. Feels like a victory.”

Everyn’s mouth quirked into a smile. 

At last, Zeyn sat, though he seemed wary. 

“Thank you, Petra.”

The huntress nodded, leaving to find her own meal. 


	2. Dalish

Rowan thrived among the Dalish. They were slow to accept her, but it was hard to see a child eager to learn as a threat for long. The girl approached everything with quiet concentration. She especially enjoyed ranging into the forest with the hunters, learning to understand the forest around her. She was quick to master walking silently, practicing both in and outside the camp. It seemed to amuse Everyn, as his granddaughter soon unintentionally snuck up on his First on a regular basis.

From the Keeper, Rowan learned with Haren, a boy a few years her senior. Zeyn also helped with these lessons, but he was less patient, and not lost his wariness of Rowan after a year. They learned the magic of the Dalish, and the lore of their people and clan. Everyn was quick to nurture Rowan’s talent for healing, one he shared.

It was, however, one day scouting with Petra that Rowan stopped suddenly.

“Don’t go there.”

The hunter paused. She looked back at the young mage.

Rowan’s eyes were wide, and she clenched her hands at her sides, trembling slightly.

Petra walked back to her, and leaned down, “Why shouldn’t I go there?”  

“There’s something bad there,” Rowan said. A sweat was breaking out on her forehead.

Petra watched her carefully, then nodded, “Alright,” she stood, “let’s go let the Keeper know.”

Rowan nodded, following as Petra led the way back to camp. She kept looking over her shoulder, like the bad thing would come out to attack them.

Petra kept a careful eye on their surroundings.

When they finally rejoined the rest of the clan, Rowan ran to her grandfather.

Everyn looked down in surprise as his granddaughter wrapped herself around his legs. He had never seen her afraid before. She had faced a great bear, once, which had terrified the Keeper. But Rowan had simply stayed very still and quiet, until the bear had wandered away. Everyn had praised Mythal, not for the last time. This was different. He leaned down, embracing her and stroking her hair, “Da’len, what’s wrong?”

Rowan shook her head.

Everyn looked up in concern.

Even Zeyn looked unsettled.

“She said there was something bad up ahead,” Petra said.

Everyn considered this, then pulled back from his granddaughter, “Don’t worry, da’len. I’ll protect us from the bad thing. Stay here with Haren.”

Rowan frowned, eyes wide, “What if it hurts you?”

Everyn smiled, “Then you’ll be ready to heal me, won’t you?”

His grandaughter swallowed, then nodded.

Patting her head, Everyn rose. He turned to Petra, “Show me where this happened.”

Zeyn went with the Keeper to the place Rowan had stopped. When they reached it, the mages asked Petra to remain as they continued forward.

“What do you think it could be?” the First asked.

Everyn sighed, “I think it must have been something that caused Rowan great pain, to make her react so.”

Zeyn opened his mouth to speak, then stopped in surprise when a screech rent the air. He suddenly felt terror wash over him, like someone had poured cold water over his head.It froze him in place, and it was the Keeper’s intervention that kept him from being rent by claws that seemed to come from nowhere.

“Fight the fear, Zeyn!” Everyn called out, the claws hitting him instead. The Keeper cursed, blood spurting from his shoulder as he dropped his staff.

The First shook himself out of his stupor, looking at their opponent.

It was a demon, twisted and gangly, terrible to see. It seemed to give off an aura of pure fear, and Zeyn had to fight to keep his focus.

Everyn, grim faced, tapped into the power of the earth beneath him. It immobilized him, but he used this bond to summon roots and vines to entangle the terror demon.

It screeched and struggled, but as it cut vines, more rose to replace them.

Zeyn, face pale, took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, then opened them and sent a stone fist hurtling into the trapped demon. It howled, and the First followed his first assault by summoning vines that shot out of the ground like spears.

The demon’s death howl was pitiful, until it cut off suddenly, the demon going slack. It’s body dissolved.

Everyn collapsed.

Zeyn ran up to him, “Keeper!”

Everyn took up his staff, using it as support as he rose with a grimace, “I haven’t the…  power to heal this, and you... haven’t the skill,” he panted, “Let us return to camp… quickly.”

Zeyn had objections, but did not voice them. He supported the Keeper’s side, and when they came back to Petra, she rushed to help. When they reached camp, they were mostly carrying the exhausted, pale Keeper between them. As they laid him down, Rowan rushed up to them.

She was healing the wounds without a word, Zeyn and Petra stepping back to give her room.

The First watched in apprehension, but the hunter had seen Rowan heal worse. A fennec that had been attacked by something, it’s leg barely attached. Rowan had managed to restore it to full health, and she did so again now.

Everyn breathed a sigh of relief, putting a hand over his granddaughter’s on his shoulder, “Thank you, da’len.”

Rowan smiled, sitting back on her heels, “What happened to the bad thing?”  

Everyn carefully sat up, examining the rips in his clothing, “It is gone. It was a demon, one of terror. I imagine we will find whoever summoned it nearby, or what remains of them.”

“Why would someone be so foolish?” Zeyn said, looking at Rowan with new respect. “And how did you sense it, da’len?”

Rowan’s brow crinkled in confusion.

Everyn sighed, “I imagine Rowan is more confused that we did not sense it than we are that she did,” he tousled his granddaughter’s hair, “And to that, I have very few answers, I am afraid.”

“Well, whatever reason, it seems she saved us a fair bit of trouble by sensing it,” Petra added, crossing her arms.

“Yes, and a fair bit more by healing me,” Everyn said, getting to his feet. He was still a bit weak, but that was natural wear from the healing, “Let’s stop here for today. I need to rest.”

As the others went about to set up camp, Zeyn stayed behind with Rowan. He watched the clan working, and thought about what would have happened if the demon had ambushed them. He looked down at Rowan, who looked up at him with a questioning stare. Zeyn leaned down, to be eye level, “Thank you, Rowan.”

The girl tilted her head, “For what?”  

Zeyn sighed, and, hesitantly, reached out to tousle the girl’s hair, “For keeping us safe,” he went to help with setting up camp.

Rowan watched after him. After a few minutes, she joined in as well.

 

* * *

 

From that day on, there seemed to be a subtle shift in the clan. Where before they had treated her with resigned acceptance, now they began to see her as one of their own. Rather than Everyn and Petra looking after the girl, she was given to Rolln, the hahren, with the other children. For Rowan, however, things changed in a different way. She started having strange dreams, not necessarily bad, but strange. She dreamed of a place full of dark rocks and a lot of green, glowing rocks. But when she told Everyn, he seemed troubled.

“She dreams of the Beyond,” he told Zeyn, without Rowan present. “The raw Beyond, without dreams.”

“What does it mean?” Zeyn asked. From the Keeper’s tone, he knew it was a concerning turn of events.

Everyn sighed, finger tapping his chin, “I do not know. I recall tales of such things from other Keepers during the last Arlathvhen, but I was not even the Keeper’s First at the time. I did not pay attention, thinking it would not be important to me.”

“And now we do not know what to do,” Zeyn said, looking over the clan. “If she is in the Beyond, she will attract demons.”

“I know. We must teach her to defend herself against them. That is all we can do for her, I fear.”

“Will it be enough? We could seek out another clan, see if their Keeper has more knowledge.”

“Even then, it was only stories,” Everyn said, shaking his head. “I do not think we will find much more help that way. The only other person who could help her would be…”

“Who?” Zeyn asked, but he felt something slimy settle in the pit of his stomach.

The Keeper met his eyes, “Her father.”

Zeyn swallowed. He could tell the Keeper didn’t like the idea any more than he did, but he was right. The Imperium knew magic better than anyone. It was likely that if they couldn’t help Rowan, her father could.

“He would take her,” the First said, feeling affectionate possession.

Everyn smiled thinly, “Were you not the one complaining that we had too many mages?”

Zeyn frowned, blushing.

The Keeper sighed, and rose, “I will send a letter to Haryelle. She should know how to get in contact with the magister.”

It was Petra that left to deliver the letter. In the weeks that followed, Everyn taught Rowan all he could of defending herself against demons. He knew it was little enough, especially when his granddaughter started to have actual nightmares. He was relieved when the hunter returned, and Haryelle with her.

Haryelle had sent a letter to Rowan’s father. The girl was happy enough to see her mother again, and spent a lot of time introducing her to the rest of the clan. They were more willing to accept Haryelle, this time, but still wary.

They were warier still when they learned that Haryelle had, indeed, sent for Rowan’s father.

There were a lot of things Rowan was taught then, in a flurry. Her mother wanted to make sure she understood the dangers of templars, while Everyn wanted to instill in her respect for the dangers of magic. By the time the magister arrived, the girl’s head was spinning with everything she was supposed to remember.

He came alone, which spoke to either his wisdom or his arrogance. He didn’t meet them at the Dalish camp proper; he waited on the road nearby the forest, where Rowan was brought to him by her mother.

They appraised each other in much the same fashion. Rowan took in the black robes he was sweating under, the strangely cut black hair, and the sky blue eyes. All the lines about him seemed harsh, high cheekbones, long, straight nose, thin lips and small, partially sunken eyes. Rowan, by contrast, took more after her mother than she had thought. Her cheeks were not as high, her hair had grown and was braided back, her eyes were larger and rounder, and her nose was smaller and softer.

Haryelle stopped a few feet from the road, and the magister, “Theophanes.”

“Haryelle,” the magister returned, tone as neutral as hers, “I am disappointed you did not come to me sooner, my dear.”

“I have not been you dear in many years, messere.”

Theophanes inclined his head in acknowledgement, “This is the girl?” turned to look closely at Rowan.

The girl was watching him warily.

“Your daughter, yes,” Haryelle said. “Her name is Rowan.”

“And she is a somniari,” Theophanes held out a hand invitingly, “Come here, child.”

Rowan looked up at her mother.

Haryelle smiled as encouragingly as she could, giving her a small push towards the magister.

Her daughter walked up to him, looking into those unfamiliar eyes, “What’s a somniari?”  

Theophanes raised a brow, “In Common, a Dreamer,” he bent down, to get a better look at her, “It is a very powerful kind of mage.”

“Are you one?”

Theophanes arched a brow, “No.”

“Then how can you help?” Rowan asked, without bite.

Theophanes’s other eyebrow joined his first, “Because I have knowledge, and the elves do not. They didn’t even have a word for what you are.”

“Then why don’t you just tell them? I like being Dalish.”

Theophanes looked over Rowan’s head to her mother, expression bemused.

Haryelle was nervous, but tried not to let it show.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, _parvulus_ ,” he said.

Rowan scrunched up her face at the unfamiliar word, “Why?”

Theophanes rubbed his forehead. Three children, and none had managed to frustrate him quite so quickly. He looked back at Haryelle again, who smiled in a way that suggested she knew the feeling. Which was not the most comforting thought, as it meant Rowan was always like this, but Theophanes could manage. He was a magister, after all,“Because the knowledge is in books in Tevinter, written in Tevene, some of which cannot leave Tevinter. And there are some other somniari there, though it is doubtful they will be of help.”

“Why wouldn’t they help?” his daughter asked.

Theophanes’s hand dropped, and he considered his answer, “Because you’re competition. They will consider you a threat.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Rowan agreed. “Why?”

“ _Fasta vass_ …” Theophanes said, then covered his mouth.

Haryelle snorted, then covered her own mouth to hide her amusement.  

The magister sent her a weak glare. The girl would be learning Tevene, and there was no reason to curse in front of her. Even if she _did_ seem to be a master of infuriation. “Come with me, _parvulus,_ and I will explain as best I can.”

Rowan looked back at her mother.

Haryelle nodded. She was smiling sadly.

Her daughter looked back at Theophanes, “Will I get to see my mother again?”

Theophanes held back a sigh, sizing Haryelle up. He had the distinct impression that Rowan would not come with him unless he agreed, “When you are older, and can protect yourself.”

The girl looked up at him seriously. It felt like she could look into his soul, with those eyes. So clear, so young. Finally, she nodded.

Theophanes stood, offering her his hand.

She took it warily, and continued to cast glances back at Haryelle as they walked to town, “What does parvulus mean?”

Theophanes winced at her pronunciation, “Little one.”

_This child will be the death of me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 25% Dalish, 25% Antivan, 50% Tevinter and 100% a little shit.


	3. The Estate

It was too bad not everyone had aravels, Rowan reflected.  _ Euphemia _ , she reminded herself. That was her Tevinter name. She kept forgetting to respond to it. 

They were in a carriage, and had traveled a few weeks to reach Tevinter. They were headed for the Drusus estate. Her new home. 

Rowan, that is, Euphemia, wasn’t sure she would like living in one place all the time. But, she reflected, it hadn’t seemed to bother her before she travelled with the Dalish, so there was no reason to assume it would now.

She looked across the carriage at her father.  _ Patrem _ , she said, practicing her Tevene to herself. He had one arm balanced against the window of the carriage, temple to his hand, asleep. How anyone could sleep in a carriage was beyond Euphemia, with all the bouncing, but she supposed one became accustomed to it. Or not, as a particularly harsh bump jostled the magister awake. 

“Is the estate in a city?” Euphemia asked. 

Theophanes rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, avoiding the armor on his fingers, “No,” he said, voice thick with sleep. Where the girl found the energy to stay awake across these long stretches of road, he would never know, “It’s just outside of a city, with it’s own grounds. We have a house in the city, of course, but it isn’t the estate.”

“What city is it outside of?”

“Qarinus,” Theophanes ran his hands over his hair, grimacing. There was very little in the way of towns from the forests between Antiva and the Free Marches to Qarinus, and he would be glad of a bath and his bed. He would have also included his wife, but she had gotten her own bedroom as soon as they’d managed to produce a daughter, “Do you remember the name of the capitol?”

“Minrathous,” Rowan -  _ Euphemia _ \- looked out the window. Fields rolled by, tended to by mostly elves and Qunari. The girl had never seen Qunari before that she could remember, and tried to get a better look at those they passed.

“Good,” her father attempted to stretch his legs in the confined space. All the mages in Thedas, and yet no one had managed to come up with a spell for crossing long distances. He supposed it was a moot point, really, since a mage would likely be out of mana by the time they reached their destination. But, still, if it meant less carriage rides, it was possible he’d risk it. That was what lyrium was for, after all, “And how will you greet your step mother?”

“Avanna,” the girl pointed out a large, white building with several towers, “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Theophanes looked out himself. He sighed, sitting back and rubbing his temples. He would be surprised if Lucilla was even there to greet them. She had not been pleased to discover her husband had a bastard, even a somniari bastard. Though, he felt it was more jealously that none of her children were somniari, more than the affair itself. 

Slaves opened the gate as the carriage approached, which allowed Euphemia to get a better look at some Qunari, if not by much. 

“Sit down,  _ parvulus, _ ” the magister said. 

Euphemia hadn’t realized she turned to get her knees up on the seat, for a better vantage point. She turned, reluctantly, although the Qunari were already further away and shutting the gates again. Instead, the girl looked forward, at the Drusus estate.

It was very impressive, although it seemed to be built more like a fortress than a home. The carriage stopped at the front door, and the doorman rose to open it. Theophanes exited first, eyes scanning the party arranged to greet them. There were his other children and their attendants, but, as he suspected, not his wife. 

“ _ Avanna, patrem, _ ” Gavriil, the oldest, stepped forward to greet them in Tevene. He eyed Euphemia as she exited the carriage, but did not greet her right away.  _ “Was the trip long?” _

“ _ Long enough, _ ” Theophanes returned. Gavriil was already a man, and so his father spoke to him as such. He gestured at Euphemia, bringing his arm around but not quite on her shoulders, “Children, meet you sister.”

“Avanna,” the girl was entirely uncowed as she offered her hand to her brother. 

Gavriil blinked at her in surprise, looking at his father. 

Theophanes sighed, waving in a way that indicated she was, in fact, always like this.

“Avanna, sister,” the oldest shook her hand. He arched a brow in amusement. He hadn’t expected his sister to be quite so… well, he’d had an image of a shy country wild woman, but this was certainly not it, “I’m Gavriil.”

“Ro- Euphemia,” she corrected herself. 

Theophanes nodded, as Gavriil stepped back and his younger, slighter brother stepped forward. 

“Avanna, Euphemia,” he looked askance. He spoke very softly, like he was out of breath, “I’m Sosigenes.”

“Avanna, Sosigenes.” 

Sosigenes stepped back, and the youngest of the three stepped forward.

“Avanna, sister,” she said, the second word almost like a prayer. She took Euphemia’s hand in both of her own. 

Her younger sister blinked at her. 

“I am so glad to finally meet you. I’m Aemilia.”

“Avanna, Aemilia,” Euphemia tilted her head, “Why are you glad to meet me?”

Theophanes sighed in tired exasperation, covering his eyes with his hand. He waved at what few staff had come to see to him, making his way inside. 

Aemilia blinked in surprise, “Well, to be honest, I always wanted a sister. I hope we get along.”

“ _ You mean you wanted someone else to take the brunt of the family’s shame, _ ” Gavriil said, in Tevene. 

Aemilia withered a bit, under it. 

Euphemia wasn’t exactly sure what her eldest brother had said, but she did notice Aemilia’s reaction. She put her other hand over her sister’s, “I hope so, too,” she smiled. 

Aemilia smiled back. 

Gavriil made a retching noise, “ _ Why do you even want to be friends with an elven whelp? _ ” 

“ _ A somniari, _ ” Sosigenes reminded him, softly. 

Gavriil rolled his eyes, “ _ A knife ear’s still a knife ear if they can do magic. _ ”  

Aemilia turned, offering her brother a weak smile, “I’m going to show Euphemia to her rooms,” she tugged her little sister along by the hand. 

Her sister went with her willingly, “Rooms? More than one?”

“Of course,” Aemilia paused, slowing as she led Euphemia through the high ceilinged halls. When she turned to look back, the girl was taking in the dragon topped pillars and tall pictures of the Drusus ancestors. 

Euphemia looked back when she realized they’d stopped. 

“Have you never had a room before?”

“I had a room when I lived with mother. But just one.”

“I… see,” Aemilia blinked. Then she smiled, softly, “Well, I suppose I’ll have to show you around them. When you’re clean and dressed, I’ll show you around the estate.”

Euphemia looked down at herself, “Am I not already?” she’d washed earlier this week, and she certainly thought she was wearing clothes. 

Aemilia continued smiling, but a bit more strained, “I… you’re… no, not really. I mean, it’s all well for travel, but you’re home now. Do you… do you have any proper robes?”

“Proper robes?” her sister’s brows furrowed. 

Aemilia started walking again, “Oh, no, I suppose you wouldn’t, living with the kn-elves, and all.”

“Being Dalish,” Euphemia corrected. 

Aemilia hummed, but didn’t reply. 

Eventually, they did reach the rooms the older girl had mentioned. She let Euphemia’s hand drop and walked forward, waving a hand vaguely, “I know they’re rather dull, but I imagine you’ll be able to decorate them however you like now that you’re here.” 

Euphemia’s eyes grew round as saucers, “Dull?” 

The single room containing the bed was as large as her house had been with her mother. It contained a large window with richly colored curtains, and the bed was the largest she’d ever seen. 

Aemilia nodded, looking around in sympathy, “Just tell the slaves what you want, they’ll get it,” she tapped her lip, looking Euphemia up and down. She was a head and a half taller than her, and twice her age, “I may have robes in your size. They’ll have to do for now. We’ll have something made later.”

She snapped her fingers, and an elf woman appeared from seemingly nowhere. 

Euphemia watched as Aemilia told her what to get. The elf bowed as she disappeared again. 

Aemilia turned to smile at her sister, “Now, let’s see about a bath.”

Euphemia had never had a proper bath. She’d had an ewer of water to wash with when she lived with her mother, and the Dalish used streams and ponds mostly, which were more often than not cold or lukewarm at best. Sinking into the hot water, Euphemia thought baths could be something she could get used to. Even if it did involve a lot more soaps than she was used to, she thought, eyeing the assortment Aemilia had left her with dubiously. 

There had been slaves that had stepped forward to help her, but Euphemia had refused, stating she was old enough to wash herself. The comment had seemed to confuse Aemilia, but then the older girl had shrugged and let her be. Now Euphemia wished she’d at least let someone stay to show her what she was supposed to do with everything. Instead, she shrugged, found something she liked the smell of, and used that.

When she got out of the bath, Euphemia was waiting with some of her old robes. She still seemed confused when Euphemia also insisted upon dressing herself, but let her do it. She helped when some of the designs floored the girl, explaining them. The robes ended up slightly too big for her, and Aemilia had a slave take down Euphemia’s measurements to have her own robes made. When all that had been seen to, Aemilia had her sit down so a servant could brush and style her hair. And, when that was over, she showed her sister first her own rooms, then the rest of the estate.

Euphemia’s rooms consisted of the bedroom, a large closet, the bath, a small library and a drawing room. Aemilia showed her the excellent view overlooking the gardens from the last, in case she should feel the urge to practice her skills in that area. Euphemia didn’t think she was much of an artist, but she did think the garden was pretty. 

They had only gotten through part of one of the wings of the estate before Aemilia had to go to supper. She’d said they would continue tomorrow, and an elf woman showed Euphemia the way back to her room. Euphemia noticed them everywhere, standing along walls as if waiting for something. Aemilia had seemed somehow oblivious to them, like they were part of the decor. 

When Euphemia reached her room, she turned to the woman who’d led her there, “What’s your name?” 

“Jeranna,” the woman said, bowing. “If it pleases you.”

“It’s your name,” the girl frowned, “Why would it matter?”

“I will have whatever name pleases the mistress,” Jeranna said. 

Euphemia sighed, puzzled, “Just have your name.”  

Jeranna nodded again. Then she waved through the room, “If it pleases, food has been brought to the drawing room for the mistress.”  

Euphemia frowned, but nodded, headed to the room. Inside, a table was set in front of the window overlooking the garden. Euphemia approached it cautiously, looking the food over. None of it was familiar to her, and she turned, “Jeranna?” 

The elf woman appeared again, “Yes, mistress?” 

“Is any of the food meat?” 

Jeranna stepped up to the table, “Yes, mistress,” she pointed out the dishes and named them, “Would mistress like them removed?”

“Yes, please.” 

Jeranna bowed, and took the plates containing meat away. That was something else the girl had noticed; rather than having everything on one large plate, the food was broken up amongst smaller plates. She supposed that did make it easier to pick the foods she enjoyed.

Euphemia looked out the window, over the carefully maintained gardens. She ate, wondering if it was also a Tevinter thing to eat alone in your room. Rooms. That would take some getting used to. 

When  she was done eating, Euphemia walked around her rooms, repeating the names of things in Tevene. 

At one point, Theophanes entered the room and simply stopped, listening. She was getting better, he reflected, “Euphemia.” 

She appeared, walking out of the library. 

He frowned at her disheveled appearance. “What are you doing?”

“I was practicing. And trying to figure out where they go.”

“Where who go?” Theophanes asked. 

“The slaves.” 

Theophanes raised an eyebrow, “And why would you want to know that?” 

“Because I don’t know,” his daughter said. 

The magister had a startled realization that he didn’t, either. 

“What are slaves? Are they like servants?”

“Something of the like,” Theophanes led the way back into the library. He gave it a once over, then moved to a pedestal in the center, “Why do you care? They’re just slaves.”

“They’re elves,” Euphemia said, “And Qunari. Are there human slaves?”

“Yes, there are,” her father used magic to pull over a chair. He indicated Euphemia should sit.

She did so, “But why are there so many elves? I’ve never seen so many of us before.”

“You aren’t an elf,” Theophanes retrieved a tome of beginners magic. He had to know what the girl already knew, before he began training her himself.

“I’m Dalish,” Euphemia tilted her head, “Did you forget?”

“I… being elfish is not seen as a good thing in the Imperium,  _ parvulus _ .”

“Elvhen.” 

Theophanes sighed as he flipped through the book, “Children do not correct their elders.”

“But you were wrong,” Euphemia said. 

Theophanes looked up sharply. There was nothing hostile in his daughter’s posture or gaze, and the magister softened, “It is disrespectful.” 

Euphemia’s brows knit, “So you would rather be wrong?” 

The magister opened his mouth to respond, then stopped short. He closed his mouth, considering the question. Then he sighed, “Very well, I would rather be right,” he shook his head. This child would be the death of him, he was sure of it, “Tell me, what did your mother say when you corrected her?”

“Thank you.” 

Theophanes stared at her. Maker, this child would either be the death of  _ him _ , or get  _ herself _ killed.  

He tried not to laugh. It was absurd; a magister, being corrected by his eight year old bastard daughter. But when he looked into her eyes, all full of innocence, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her. Gavriil was disrespectful because he knew he could be, Sosigenes was disrespectful because his mother had spoiled him, and Aemilia was… well, Aemilia was the picture of respectability, really. But Euphemia… Euphemia was none of these things, he realized. His youngest honestly did not understand why the things she did weren’t appropriate. And Theophanes had yet to find a way to explain them to her that didn’t come out sounding like nonsense, “Thank you,  _ parvulus _ .” 

“You’re welcome,  _ patrem _ ,” Euphemia said, waiting, expectantly. 

Her father shook his head again, and looked back to his tome, “What did you manifest with?” 

“Healing.” 

Theophanes nodded, “And what did you learn amongst the Dalish?” 

“Plants.”  

The magister looked up at her, but she didn’t seem to have more to say. He tapped his chin, and walked around the pedestal, offering her his hand, “Could you show me what you mean? In the garden?” 

Euphemia nodded, accepting his hand as he led her through the estate. 

For the first time, Theophanes noticed just how many elven slaves roamed the halls. Mainly because Euphemia kept looking at them. Maker knew the magister didn’t; hadn’t even when he was a child. They were always just… there. He’d stopped seeing them long ago.

When they reached the garden, Theophanes let go of his daughter’s hand to let her walk forward on her own. 

She wandered a bit, looking around, before finally finding a tree. She looked at Theophanes, “I’m not as good as grandfather, or the First, but they said that’s because I’m young, and I’ll get better with practice.”

“That is general the way things work,” her father agreed, wondering what he was about to see. Flowers, perhaps? 

Euphemia nodded, then turned, taking a deep breath. She closed her eyes, and concentrated. 

Theophanes’s brows knit together as the ground began to tremble, then smoothed as his eyes widened and he stepped back. The roots of the tree and nearby vegetation emerged from the ground, growing and thickening. Some did, indeed, bloom with flowers, but most didn’t get far before Euphemia stopped, sweating. 

She looked around in disappointment, “Grandfather and the First can make really big roots pop up,” she watched her father in confusion. He seemed taken aback with what she’d done. But he was a mage, and Tevinter had a lot of knowledge, didn’t it?

“So I see…” Theophanes murmured. He noticed then that the bushes nearby had bloomed as well, and touched one of the flowers. Real, so no illusions. He looked at Euphemia again, “What else can you do,  _ parvulus _ ?” 

“That’s all,” his daughter said, “Besides the weird dreams.”

“I see…” the magister sighed, holding out his hand again, “Come along then,  _ filia _ , for I have much to teach you.”

Euphemia took his hand, looking over her shoulder at the garden as they went back into the house, “I like it better that way.” 

Theophanes sighed, “It’s unfortunate my wife will not agree.” 


	4. Qarinus

“Eppie!”

Euphemia looked back. 

Aemilia ran up to her, panting, “By the Maker! Are you always this fast?” 

Euphemia had been living in Tevinter for a year now, and her Tevene was improved to the point where she asked her siblings to speak it around her. She said it was easier to remember, even if she did occasionally need to ask them to slow down, “Yes,” Euphemia looked around the marketplace. 

Sosigenes was trailing behind Aemilia, shuffling as if walking took him concentrated effort. 

It was, at Theophanes’s suggestion, Euphemia’s first trip to Qarinus. Gavriil had also been enlisted to look after her, but had disappeared as soon as the siblings reached town. Not that Euphemia minded. She had the impression that Gavriil did not much like her.

“How?” Aemilia stopped to catch her breath. 

Euphemia shrugged. She’d never put much thought into such a thing, but everyone seemed to ask her the same question at one point or another. 

“She runs in the garden…” Sosigenes mumbled. He hardly ever spoke to anyone directly. He’d spoken more to the ground than either of the girls.

“That’s because the flowers seem lonely,” Euphemia said, as if he had spoken to her. 

Sosigenes looked up at her, staring for a minute before looking down again, every movement slow and exaggerated, “Flowers… lonely…” he muttered, as if trying to decipher a deeper meaning. 

Euphemia shrugged, looking around. She’d never been to a city like Qarinus, big and bursting with people. It seemed to her like there were people everywhere. And slaves. She was finally starting to understand what slaves were. Although her tutor in the history of the Imperium had tried to gloss over the subject, and then tried to unsuccessfully argue something Euphemia wasn’t arguing. She’d stopped asking him after that, “Do you smell that?”

Aemilia gulped as she looked around. They were in a slum district, and people were staring. And glaring. She forced herself to stand tall, shoulders back. She was an Altus, after all. 

“Rotting meat… piss and sweat… brine and sweet decay… ” Sosigenes mumbled. 

Aemilia agreed with most of it, but didn’t say as much. Instead, she smiled weakly at Euphemia, “Smell what?” she had no idea how her sister made out anything, especially since they had started in the market district. 

Euphemia cast around, and finally pointed, “That,” she walked over to a stall where a golden skinned Qunari woman was cooking something. 

One of her horns was broken, and the other was wrapped in leather. She looked up at the approaching Altuses, and bowed her head, “Avanna, Altus,” addressing Euphemia as the girl stepped closest to the stall. 

Aemilia hung back, moving slightly behind Sosigenes. 

The boy looked up, then away, picking at the elbow of his robe.

“Avanna,” Euphemia examined the food, “Is this all vegetables?”

“It is,” the Qunari woman said. She had two pans open, and was sticking vegetable bits onto sharp sticks, “I dip the vegetables into batter,” she demonstrated as she spoke, “And then into spiced oil, to cook it,” she held the cooked stick out to Euphemia, “It is common fare, but you are welcome to try it.”

“Thank you,” the girl accepted the food. She looked it over first, then took a bite. Her eyes lit up, and she rapidly finished the vegetables on a stick. Likcing the remaining oil off her lips, she looked up at the Qunari woman, “How much are they?”

The Qunari woman blinked. She looked at Euphemia’s siblings, then back at her. She shrugged, and gave the price, which amounted to a few coppers. 

Euphemia bought ten, giving one to each of her siblings.

“I don’t… know, Eppie,” Aemilia said, holding the food dubiously, “It’s… different.”

“Just try it,” her sister was already setting in on her second. 

Sosigenes stared at the food as if it were going to come alive if he didn’t keep an eye on it. 

Aemilia sighed, softly, and tried it for herself at last, “It… it is good,” she blinked in surprise. 

Euphemia hummed in agreement, waving to the Qunari woman as she led the way further through the slums. 

The woman shook her head after them, then turned to speak to a younger Qunari girl. The siblings didn’t notice the girl slip into the shadows, following them.

“What are you hoping to find here?” Aemilia stuck close to Euphemia as they wandered. 

Her sister shrugged, “Something new.”  

Sosigenes had finally tried his vegetable stick, and was nibbling at it as they went. He seemed unconcerned with where they were, or where they were going. 

“But the port is new,” Aemilia side stepped something unpleasant in the street. 

“I’ve heard about the port in books. I don’t know anything about this place.”

“The slums,” Sosigenes supplied. “No books. No importance. It’s already dead.”

“How can it be dead if it’s alive?” Euphemia waved a hand still holding three vegetable sticks around, “Look at all the people! It’s like an ant colony.”

“A mage would compare us to ants.”

Euphemia turned around to face the speaker. 

It was an elf man, half his face scarred by burns. He spat, others at his back. 

Aemilia stepped in front of her sister, while Sosigenes shuffled behind, more elves coming around the other side. 

The man glared, crossing his arms, “This is a place for the Liberati. We don’t need your kind here,  _ mage _ .”

“Have I done something wrong?” Euphemia stepped in front of Aemilia. 

The older girl was sweating, looking around at all the glaring faces. She tried to keep her head up, but was slowly wilting under the pressure. 

Sosigenes, on the other hand, had a spell primed already. 

“You mages think you can do whatever you want,” the man said, “And you can, everywhere else. But not here. We’ve earned our freedom. You don’t get to come in here and kick us around.”

“I’m not here to do that,” Euphemia frowned. She walked forward, until only a few feet separated her and the angry man. She looked him in the eye, trying to make sense of the situation, “Why are you angry?”

“Because you’re here!” the man said, as if it were obvious.

“But what did I do?”  

The man practically growled, pointing to his face, “An Altus did that because I burned his meal on one side. He told me it would remind me next time not to burn things.”

“That’s a terrible thing to do,” Euphemia frowned deeper, “But I didn’t do that.”

“You’re an Altus!” 

The girl shrugged, “You’re an elf. I don’t see how that makes it my fault that someone burned your face for stupid reasons.”

“Eppie…” Aemilia said quietly, watching the way the elf’s face grew more red and contorted. 

“What?” Euphemia asked, looking back at her sister, “I didn’t burn his face.”

That was, apparently, the last straw for the elf. He pulled out a dagger, and launched himself at Euphemia with a shout. 

She turned, but before she could cast anything, something rammed into the elf’s side. He was knocked over, and a gold-skinned Qunari girl rolled to her feet beyond him. 

The girl turned, and grabbed Euphemia’s wrist, “Come on!” she pulled the Altus through the crowd, shoving people aside. 

Aemilia was fast behind, although she couldn’t quite keep up, and Sosigenes brought up the rear. 

When it looked like the crowd would make chase, the eldest Altus turned and rose a line of skeleton warriors at their back. The Liberati mob cowered back, giving the four time to escape. 

In an area mostly out of the slums, the Qunari girl dropped Euphemia’s wrist. She rested her hands on her knees, panting, “Kaffas!” she grinned at the youngest Altus, “You sure know how to say some stupid things, you know that?”

“How were they stupid?” Euphemia frowned. She was also out of breath, and took the moment to sit down, “They were true.”

“True, yes, smart, no,” the Qunari deadpanned, trying to imitate Euphemia’s voice, “‘You’re an elf’. That was awesome!”

“That… almost… got us… _ killed _ !” Aemilia panted, coming up to them. 

The Qunari snickered, covering her hand with her mouth, “I didn’t know a mage’s face could get that red,” she was twice as tall as Euphemia, which put her shoulders about Aemilia. 

The older Altus looked up at her in disbelief, unsure what to make of her statement. 

“What happened to your horns?” Euphemia asked, quietly. 

The Qunari turned to her, patting her head where horns were conspicuously absent, “Kaffas, I must have forgotten to put them on this morning…” she said, face slightly panicked. 

Euphemia frowned, “They… come off?” 

The Qunari stilled, staring at her, then burst out laughing, doubling over, “Oh… M-Maker’s b-balls… you… you j-just…” she struggled to speak, but failed, flapping a hand ineffectually. 

Euphemia stared at her, concern in her face. 

“They do not come off, Altus.”

The three siblings looked up, as a young man around Sosigenes’s age approached them. He was short and stout, with curly white-blond hair and ice blue eyes. He wore robes that were made all in black, and had a scar that started at his hairline, crossed down the bridge of his nose and ended at his chin. He smiled at them, speaking Tevene with a Nevarran accent.

“Avanna, I am Rudolf Pentaghast, Mortalitasi,” he said, bowing. “I couldn’t help but notice the magic, earlier. Necromancy. Something of a specialty of mine. That was you, wasn’t it?”

The last was directed at Sosigenes, with a soft smile. The eldest Altus looked around, as if the necromancer had spoken to someone else, “Raising corpses… easier to do when you’re closer to the dead…”  

Rudolf clapped him on the shoulder, “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that, I quite like being lively,” he laughed, “But it was excellent work, for a Tevinter. Tell me, have you an interest in necromancy in particular?”

Sosigenes looked up sharply, and it was the quickest motion either of his sisters had seen him make since knowing him. 

The Qunari had finally quieted, and looked on in confusion as the girls stared at their brother. 

Sosigenes blushed, and ducked his head, “Yes,” he spoke into the high collar of his robes. 

Rudolf blinked, then laughed again. It was an easy sound, one he obviously made often, “Well, perhaps I could teach you a thing or two, sometime. Mortalitasi and all, you know.”

“I… would like that,” Sosigenes glanced up at Rudolf, then away again, still blushing. With how pale he was, it stood out even more obviously, “I’ve been… studying. Doruk Peynirci’s  _ Treatise on the Nature of Fade Spirits and the Undead _ .”

Rudolf whistled, eyebrows shooting up, “That’s a pretty advanced wor. I only made it through half the first chapter before falling asleep. How far have you made it?”

“I’ve… read it three times…” Sosigenes ducked his head further, hunching his shoulders.

“Then we really should talk,” the Nevarran mage said, making a face. “My mentor thinks I’ve already read it, Maker preserve me.”

Sosigenes peeked up.

Rudolf winked at him. 

The Altus ducked his head again.

The Nevarran turned to the other Altuses, “Forgive me, I forgot to ask your names.” 

Euphemia stood, brushing off her pants, before holding out her hand, “Euphemia Drusus.” 

Rudolf shook.

The elder sister curtseyed, “Aemilia Drusus.” 

Rudolf nodded to her. He still had a hand on Sosigenes’s shoulder, and tilted his head almost upside down to peek up at him with a smile, “And you, my necromatic friend?” 

The Altus looked off to the side, glancing here and there, “Sosigenes.” 

Rudolf nodded, straightening and looking around, “Your Qunari friend seems to have made herself scarce.” 

The girls looked around as well. 

“She… she’s not our friend,” Aemilia said, “We just met.”

“Well, it seems she did help you out of a bad situation,” Rudolf replied. He patted Sosigenes’s shoulder, and finally withdrew his hand. The movement seemed almost reluctant, and Sosigenes moved onto the balls of his feet to chase after it before he’d noticed. 

“I never even got her name…” Euphemia was still looking around. Movement caught her eye, and she looked up in time to see the Qunari jump between rooftops. Most Tevinter architecture was tall, white stone, but this near the slums, the buildings were smaller, and made out of wood. 

That was all Euphemia saw of the other girl, as Rudolf talked them into joining him for lunch. Well, talked Aemilia into it. Sosigenes was more than happy to go, while Euphemia could care less one way or the other. 

As they sat at a Nevarran restaurant, Euphemia’s mind kept wandering back to the Qunari girl that had helped them. Sosigenes and Rudolf had become deeply involved in a discussion of some obscure aspect of necromancy, while Aemilia was trying and failing to engage Euphemia in conversation while still politely listening to her brother and their host. 

It was just as Rudolf was reciting a story with a particular flourish that Gavriil burst through the door of the restaurant. Everyone’s head turned. Sosigenes’s sunk into his chair, while Aemilia cleared her throat and tried to smile. Euphemia was the only one that watched while Gavriil made his way over to them, sauntering between the tables with a thin smile.

“Magic,” he placed a large hand on the table, “In the Liberati slums. Against the Liberati,” he was looking straight at Sosigenes as he said it. 

His brother tried to sink further into his chair, willing the earth to swallow him up. 

“They threatened us,” Euphemia said. 

Gavriil turned his head to look at her. 

The youngest Drusus tilted her head, “One attacked me.”

“Oh?” he sneered down his nose at her, “And is there anyone who can confirm this?”

“I can,” Rudolf smiled pleasantly. 

Gavriil seemed to notice him for the first time, and eyed him suspiciously, “And you are?”  

The other man stood, to bow, “Rudolf Pentaghast, Mortalitasi.”  

Gavriil sniffed, but considered, “Like the royal family?”  

Rudolf laughed, “Do you know how many Pentaghasts there are?” he waved a hand dismissively, “We’re related, somewhere down the line, but it’s doubtful the crown will come anywhere near my head.”

“If you say so,” Gavriil shrugged. He eyed Euphemia again, “If one attacked you, why aren’t there any rips in your clothing?”

“A Qunari saved me,” his sister said, “But she disappeared, after.”

“It was all very strange,” Aemilia added. 

It earned her an irate glare from her oldest brother, “Well, let’s go find her, you and I,” Gavriil said to his youngest sister, smiling in a way Euphemia found strange. 

There was no warmth behind it, and she was unsure what it meant. But she shrugged, getting out of her seat and following Gavriil out the door, “Why are we looking for her?”  

Gavriil grunted, “Because I said so.”

“Are you going to hurt her?” 

Gavriil looked down at the girl, glaring, “What if I was?”  

Euphemia stopped in her tracks, “Then I won’t help you find her.”  

Gavriil made a noise akin to a growl, “You will.”  

His sister just blinked at him, like he was missing something. 

He sneered, “You’re going to help me, you ungrateful piece of shit, whether you like it or not.”

“Why should I?”  

Gavriil snickered, “Because if you don’t, I’ll make you regret it.” 

“How?”  

Her brother opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brows furrowed. With his other siblings, he’d only ever had to go this far, “I’ll… put spiders in your hair.” 

He’d done that to Aemilia before. He smirked. She’d squealed and set her own hair on fire. 

Euphemia blinked at him, “Is that all?” 

Traveling with the Dalish, spiders and other bugs in her hair had been a relatively common occurrence. They didn’t hurt, so she didn’t quite see how it would matter. 

Gavriil frowned, “No,” he tried to think of all the other things he’d done to his other siblings when they were all younger, “I’ll… freeze the water in your bathtub.”

“While I’m in it?” the girl tilted her head. 

Gavriil scowled, “Of course!”

“How will you know?”  

The eldest Drusus sputtered, “I’ll have the slaves spit in your food!” he said. 

Euphemia shrugged, “I doubt I would taste it.” 

“Then I’ll have them fill it with spices!” 

The girl blinked, considering, “What kinds of spices?”  

Gavriil glared, bouncing up on the balls of his feet to loom more, “The… hot kind,” he said, never having had to explain this before.

“That hardly seems equal to hurting someone,” his sister frowned. 

The older Altus growled, and spat. Then considered it, “I’ll spit in your face next time.” 

Euphemia’s frown deepened, “I have a handkerchief for that.”

It had happened before, while she was still living with mother, usually followed by words like ‘elf-blooded’ or ‘knife-ear’. She’d never remembered it being a particularly memorable experience. 

Gavriil’s face had gone several shades of red as he struggled to come up with something else to say, something else to do, “I’ll…. I’ll hit you!” 

Euphemia considered that one. She hadn’t been hit before. She wondered if it was really all that bad, and so shrugged, “Go ahead.”  

Her brother opened his mouth, then closed it. 

Euphemia looked at him expectantly. 

Slowly, Gavriil raised his hand to to do it, to backhand her. But it was too strange, and the jarring way she waited for him to hit her made him remember his surroundings. 

He looked around. People were staring. Altuses and Laetans were staring. People who  _ mattered _ were staring at him, poised to backhand his youngest sister, who was only eight. Slowly, he let his hand drop, the heat sinking out of his face at the same rate. He looked back, at Euphemia, and raised a brow, “Nothing bothers you, does it?” 

Euphemia considered, “I’ve never been hit before, so I don’t know if it bothers me. But those other things aren’t that bad. Why would they bother me?”

“I… don’t know,” Gavriil crossed his arms and tilting his head, “The spiders and spices bothered Aemilia. The frozen bath and spit bothered Sosigenes.”

“Why?” 

Her brother shook his head, a laugh bubbling up in his chest, “I don’t know.”  

Euphemia frowned, “Then why did you do them?” 

He shrugged, “It was funny. It made them do what I wanted.”

“Why didn’t you just ask?” 

Gavriil opened his mouth, then closed it. He stood a long time, considering. Finally, he shrugged, “It felt better, knowing they were afraid of me. It’s always better when people are afraid of you. It means you have control over them.”

Euphemia tilted her head, considering, “No, I don’t think it does.”

“Oh?” her brother arched a brow.

“I think that’s why the elf attacked me. An Altus burned half his face. I think he was afraid of us.”

“Why do you think that?” Gavriil sighed as his shoulders slumped. He felt tired, all of a sudden. 

Euphemia considered, “If someone hurt me and I couldn’t fix it, I would be afraid of them. And I would want to make sure they couldn’t do it again.”

“Have you ever even _ been _ afraid?” Gavriil asked. He’d meant the question rhetorically, but Euphemia shivered.

“Yes,” she said. 

Her brother blinked at her. 

“When there was a demon, and I didn’t know what it was. I just knew it was bad.”

“That… is something to be afraid of,” he agreed. 

Euphemia nodded. 

“What did you do about it?”

“My grandfather taught me about demons,” his sister said, “They weren’t as scary after that. And then the weird dreams started, and he sent me here.”

“Have you encountered other demons?” Gavriil asked. 

Euphemia shook her head. Then she considered, “I hope I do.” 

Her brother’s entire face went slack, “ _ Why? _ ” 

Euphemia blinked at him, “If I know how to deal with them, they won’t be scary.” 

Gavriil looked down at her, then shook his head. He leaned down, “How about this?” he started, looking her in the eye, “You help me find the Qunari that helped you, and I’ll help you learn more about demons.”

“Are you going to hurt her?” 

Gavriil sighed, rolling his eyes, “No, I’m not going to hurt her.” 

Euphemia eyed him suspiciously. 

He held up a hand, “I promise.”

“... alright,” his sister set off, back towards the slums. 

Gavriil followed behind at a more measured pace. 

They came back to the Qunari woman’s fried vegetable carte, which was busy as Liberati workers came in for the day. Gavriil almost ordered them off, but Euphemia just stepped around the line to ask the Qunari woman about the girl. The woman blinked down at her for a moment.

“Umut!” she called, over her shoulder. 

The Qunari girl’s head peeked out of a door, “Yeah?” she asked. Then she noticed Euphemia, “Oh.”

The youngest Drusus went back to her brother. 

Soon the girl, Umut, walked cautiously up to them. She fidgeted, looking at Gavriil.

“I didn’t get your name,” Euphemia started. “Or to thank you.”

Umut shrugged, “Mom said to look after you. Said there were a lot of stupid angry people.”

“When were you born, Qunari?” Gavriil asked. 

Umut glanced at him, then away. 

Euphemia put a hand on her arm, “You don’t have to be afraid of Gavriil. I made him promise he wouldn’t hurt you.”

“... you don’t get out much, do you?” Umut asked, giving Euphemia a flat stare. 

Gavriil snorted, then tried to cover it with his hand. 

Euphemia frowned. 

“I mean, no offense, Altus,” the Qunari added, “But you do know people lie, right?”

“Why?” Euphemia asked, “What do they have to gain?”

“Depends,” Umut shrugged, “Maybe it keeps them out of trouble. Maybe it keeps someone else out of trouble. Maybe it gets someone to do something they want.”

The last was accompanied by a pointed stare. 

Euphemia looked up at her brother, “Did you lie?” 

Umut slapped a hand to her forehead, dragging it down her face, “People aren’t going to tell you if they’re lying!”  

Gavriil snorted again, louder this time. 

Euphemia frowned, “Then how do I tell?”  

The Qunari girl whined, covering her eyes, “Maker’s balls! You find out when they kick you in the ass!”

The last statement was accompanied by a smack upside the head. Umut’s mother had joined them, and looked on them serenely.

“Is my daughter bothering you, Altus?” she asked, tipping her head to Gavriil. 

He shook his head in return, “No,” he crossed his arms, “In fact, she’s proving I had a good idea.”

“What idea?” Euphemia asked, looking up at him. 

He patted her head, absently, “My father has become more doting, in his old age. He insists that my siblings and I accompany Eppie everywhere outside the estate. It’s a rather bothersome position for me, at my age, and when I heard of your daughter’s intervention in today’s incident, I thought it might be best to hire a local to look after her in our stead.”

“You want to offer my daughter a job,” the Qunari woman said, “Looking after your sister in Qarinus.”

“Exactly,” Gavriil said, trying for his most winning smile, “If you’re alright with it, Liberati…?”

“Sadik,” the woman said, “Tugba Sadik. And it is Umut’s choice, not mine, Altus.”

Umut looked up at her mother sharply, then at the Altuses. She frowned, picking at her teeth, “Why me? Why not use some slave?”

Tugba gave her daughter a reprising look. 

Umut shrugged, pulling a face.

“Because, as you may have noticed, Eppie isn’t… conventional,” Gavriil arched a brow down at his sister, “I don’t think that would work.”

“Well, what do you think?” Umut asked, looking at Euphemia. 

The younger Altus blinked at her, “I think I would like to get to know you. You seem interesting.”

“... shi-”

Tugba gave her daughter a warning look.

“-ure, why not?” Umut said. 

Gavriil nodded, and looked back to Tugba, “Then, Liberati Sadik, if you’d like to discuss terms…”

The adults walked a few steps away, talking. 

Casting a look at them, Umut slung an arm over Euphemia’s shoulders, “Okay, first lesson? If you’re going to go walking around the slums, you have  _ got  _ to stop dressing like an Altus.”


	5. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parties are fun. Gavriil makes an ass of himself. Euphemia doesn't get it.

Euphemia had never been to a Drusus party. She knew there had been parties, at least five in the past year, but she hadn’t been to them. Theophanes had told her at first that it was because she did not speak Tevene well enough, and then that she was not well enough versed in manners. But, now that she could hold a conversation on her own and properly greet everyone from a Laetan to the Archon himself, the Magister had no more excuses. Maker help him, he hoped no one spoke to his youngest.

Umut, as Euphemia’s self styled ‘people translator’, stood behind Eppie’s shoulder. The effect was ruined somewhat by her height, but it still allowed her to lean down and whisper things without being overheard. She’d been given finery, to mark her as a servant and not a slave, but the effect was ruined as she kept tugging at the collar of it.

Theophanes drank some more of his wine across the room, watching as his peers and guests arrived with flourishes of magic and aplomb. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he turned to his eldest, “Where did you say you found the Qunari girl?”

Gavriil had told him of it before, of course, but it had been hard to imagine. Harder still to recall the girls were the same age, given their difference in height.

“The Liberati slums,” Gavriil drank his own wine. His gambit in hiring Umut had been, all things considered, successful. He had no doubt that Euphemia was getting into just as much if not more trouble than she had before, but the Qunari knew how to keep everyone else from knowing she was in trouble, “Her mother, it seems, defected to Tevinter during her pregnancy and earned her freedom through a contract of indentured servitude.”

“How interesting,” the magister said. And it was, really, but every time someone even looked Euphemia’s way, it set his teeth on edge. Lucilla had refused to come to the party tonight, claiming she was ill. Or, rather, telling her husband to tell everyone she was ill. He knew the real reason she had refused to make an appearance.

Gavriil sighed, rolling his eyes, “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll have Aemilia keep an eye on her. She’s probably around her somewhere with the Tilani boy.”

“Yes, that’s probably for the best. Excuse me, my son,” Theophanes moved to greet Magister Tilani.

Gavriil rolled his eyes, and tried not to make a quip. He knew his father had never paid _him_ this much attention at parties. He also knew he’d been nothing like Euphemia at that age. With a sigh and a hand through his slicked back hair, he sought out his sister.

As he’d suspected, she was with Nikias Tilani. He frowned. Tilani was giggling, blonde hair styled in a womanly fashion and wearing diamond studs.

“Aemilia,” he said, drawing their attention.

His sister smiled at her companion, weakly, and stepped over to her brother.

“Go keep an eye on Eppie.”

“Oh, alright,” she let out a relieved breath.

He raised a brow, wondering what she’d thought he was going to say. But he didn’t ask, returning to the front of the room with his father and the Magisters and their spouses.

Aemilia led the way over to Euphemia, her companion insisting on coming with her, “Eppie, I’d like you to meet-”

“Maevaris Tilani,” her companion said, batting her eyelashes and taking Euphemia’s hands in her own. She smiled, dazzling, “A pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

Euphemia looked Maevaris up and down. She was dressed in robes that were clearly male styled, but her hair, makeup and jewelry marked her as female. The girl tilted her head, “Are you a man or a woman?”  

Aemilia gasped in horror, and Umut covered her eyes with her hand.

“Eppie…” they chorused.

Mae waved them off, smiling more sincerely, “Please, dressed in this drab thing? I don’t blame you for the confusion. But rest assured, my dear, that I am all woman. Despite what you might hear.”

“Why would I hear any differently?” Euphemia asked.

“Because she’s got the wrong bits,” Umut said.

Aemilia blushed in horror.

Mae snorted, then laughed, “Essentially, yes,” she took Euphemia’s arm and wrapped it around her own, “Come, let’s go out to the gardens, where there are less unkind ears.”

“Alright?” Euphemia said, still confused by the entire conversation.

Aemilia continued to blush furiously as she trailed behind.

Her sister tried to puzzle things through, “But I don’t understand. What do they care what… bits you have?”

“How old are you, darling?” Maevaris asked.

“Nine.”

Maevaris laughed again, leading the way into the garden, “Well, I suppose you don’t know, then.”

She sat on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard in front of the doors. She patted the stone next to her, and Euphemia joined her. Aemilia sat on Mae’s other side, while Umut jumped up to crouch on Euphemia’s side. Euphemia had noticed the Qunari hardly ever sat, anywhere.

“Don’t know what?” Euphemia asked.

“About the birds and the bees,” Mae said, crossing her legs at the ankle and tucking them to the side. She rested her chin in her hand, elbow braced in her knee.

Aemilia looked scandalized, “Mae, you aren’t going to…” she sighed, “No, I suppose you are, aren’t you?”

“Well naturally,” Maevaris tilted her head to look down imperiously, “It’s not like she’ll never know.”

“Know what?” the younger Drusus asked.

Umut snorted, trailing a hand in the water, “About baby making.”

Euphemia frowned, “What does that have to do with birds and bees?”  

Mae laughed, “You, my dear, are an absolute scream,” she rested a hand over Euphemia’s, “Aemilia, why didn’t you tell me about your treasure of a sister before?”

“I wasn’t sure how she’d handle you,” Aemilia smiled weakly.

Mae patted her arm, with a gentle smile of her own, “Oh, I see. Thank you for that, dear, but I _can_ look after my own interests.”

“Oh, is _that_ why you cheated off my primal theory test?”

The four ladies looked up to see a young man approaching them. He smiled, and bowed to Mae, kissing her hand and grinning, “Lovely to see you, my dear Mae.”  

“Dorian, you are absolutely _wicked_ ,” Mae said, in the most delighted tone, “I could just eat you up.”

“Ah, but then what would be left of me for your companions?” the boy took a step back, and bowed first to Aemilia, murmuring her name in greeting, then to Euphemia. He looked up at her, tilting his head, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Dorian Pavus.”

“Euphemia Drusus,” the girl blinked at him, “And this is Umut Sadik.”

“You don’t need to introduce me to Altuses,” the Qunari said, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose. She jumped when Dorian took her hand, placing a feather light kiss on it, as he had with Mae.

“It is my deepest honor to make your acquaintance, dear lady,” he said, a laugh behind his eyes.

Umut blinked at him, then blushed and pulled her hand away in surprise, “Yeah… you, uh, too, I guess,” she looked away as if the topiary had suddenly become more interesting.

Dorian tried not to laugh.

Mae leaned over to swat his arm, “Be nice,” she said, though she was smiling. She sat back, smoothing her robe, “Now, where were we?”

“Something about what birds and bees had to do with baby making,” Euphemia said.  

Dorian to burst out laughing, sitting down heavily on Aemilia’s free side, “Maevaris Tilani, explaining one of my favorite subjects? Now, this I simply _must_ hear.”

“Hush,” Mae held up a finger in Dorian’s direction.

He made a motion of locking his mouth and tossing away the key.

Aemilia sighed and buried her burning face in her hands.

Mae turned back to Euphemia, “Now, there are two kinds of… bits,” she winked at Umut, “the kind that stick out,” and here she held up her finger again, “and the kind that go in,” she used her other hand to make a circle, “I’m sure you know which bits you have, my dear. Now, most people think that only men have bits that go out, and only women have bits that go in, but they’re quite mistaken.”

“What’s the difference between men and women, then?” Euphemia frowned.

Mae smiled her dazzling smile, “Nothing at all, dear, other than what you feel to be right,” she put her hands down in her lap, folding them together, “I know I am a woman. I feel it in my very bones. And so I am.”

Euphemia thought about it for some time, considering all the people she had met in her life. Finally, she nodded, “Alright, but what does any of that have to do with baby making or birds and bees?”

“I think that’s something you should ask father,” Aemilia said quickly, leaning over Mae.

The latter sighed theatrically, rolling her eyes heavenward, “Alright, spoil my fun if you must.”  

Dorian chuckled, rising and stretching, “Come now, Aemilia, that wasn’t nearly as scandalous as Mae’s usual fare - which was quite disappointing, to be honest.”

“I have to keep you boys on your toes, or you’ll start learning all my tricks,” Mae smiled.

Dorian chuckled, crossing his arms behind his back, “I highly doubt any man would be capable of learning _all_ your tricks, Mae.”

Mae smiled and batted her lashes.

Euphemia looked between the two of them, “Tricks?”  

This conversation was very confusing. And she still had no idea what birds and bees had to do with baby making.

“Oh, by the Maker,” Aemilia groaned into her hands, as Mae and Dorian shared a look.

Before either could reply, however, Gavriil walked into the garden. Spotting the group, he walked over as casually as he could manage, “I think I should be worried, leaving my sisters with you two.”

Dorian turned around. He scowled, moving a bit off as Gavriil came closer.

Mae’s smile became subdued, and she let her eyes slip half lidded.

By the color in his cheeks, it was obvious the eldest Drusus child had drank perhaps a touch too much. “If Aemilia had any skill, or Eppie any guile, I would be.”

“That is a terribly unflattering thing to say about your sister, Altus Drusus,” Mae wrapped an arm around one of Aemilia’s.

The older Drusus girl smiled weakly, but made no move to defend herself.

Mae smiled coldly.

“Says the man too cowardly to _be_ a man,” Gavriil returned the smile with a scowl.

Mae stood, Aemilia with her. She seemed angry, but instead of sniping, she cooed, “I may not be a man. But I certainly know I’m too much woman for you.”

Gavriil looked like he’d been slapped.

Dorian hid a smile behind his hand.

Umut let out the start of a laugh, but clamped a hand over it before it drew Gavriil’s attention.

Drunk and unthinking, Gavriil reached out, “You little-!”

Mae smiled and sidestepped him. She used a force push from behind to land him in the fountain with a splash.

Dorian had to cough to hide a chuckle.

Mae put one foot on the edge of the fountain, leaning on it as Gavriil sputtered to the surface, “Oh, I’m sorry, did I make you wet? Don’t be embarrassed. Happens to men around me all the time.”

Dorian couldn’t hide his laugh then, and Umut doubled over to the courtyard, crying with laughter.

Euphemia frowned, looking around, “I don’t get it.”  

Mae laughed, walking over to thread her free hand around Euphemia’s arm, “You, my dear, are an absolute treasure. Why aren’t you at the Circle? You’d be a delight.”

“Father said it was because I needed to improve my Tevene,” Euphemia looked back to make sure Umut was keeping up. “And manners.”

The Qunari girl was, but it was a close thing, as Dorian continued to call out taunts to the floundering Gavriil.

“I don’t see why,” Mae looked over her shoulder, “He still lets Gavriil out, doesn’t he?”

“Gavriil’s an adult now,” Aemilia’s smile was strained.

Mae held her head up, smiling wryly, “And yet no one will take him as an apprentice.”

They had rejoined the party. Dorian had caught up to them, and Umut had regained most of her composure.

“Mae-” Aemilia’s eyes darting around to see if anyone had heard.

“If he wants to act the fool, I don’t see why I should stop him,” Mae looked at the dance floor, wheels turning in her head. She looked to Euphemia, “Eppie, do you know how to dance?”

“A little,” the girl said, trying to recall the rushed lessons of the week prior.

Mae smiled, and handed Aemilia’s arm to Dorian, “Do be a dear and play along, Dorian,” she said, with a wink.

Dorian sputtered, and Aemilia blushed as Mae pulled Euphemia onto the dance floor.

“Just follow my lead,” the older girl said.

Euphemia was having a hard time keeping up with Mae, mentally and physically, and felt like she had grown a few extra feet pointed in the wrong direction. But Maevaris was a talented dancer, and managed to cover her mistakes.

Nearby, Dorian cautiously asked Aemilia to dance, and she accepted bravely.

“Why are we doing this?” Euphemia frowned.

Umut took up a position leaning on the wall, watching. She didn’t seem to know what was going on any more than Eppie did, and shrugged when the Altus looked her way.

“To see how much of a fool Gavriil is going to make of himself tonight,” Mae replied, eyes dancing.

Euphemia opened her mouth to ask something else, but was interrupted as the dancing stopped. She looked up as Gavriil came upon them, soaked and looking much like a wet cat.

He pushed other dancers out of the way, coming to loom over Mae and Euphemia, “You-!” he started, only to be hushed by Mae’s finger on his lips.

She smiled, “Think carefully about what you’re going to say, Altus,” she said, quietly, “Look around. Take your time.”

Gavriil looked like he might just bite the finger touching him, but Mae pulled it back. Grudgingly, he did look around. At all the guests, and his father’s peers, and his own. And then, at Magister Drusus, coming into the room to see what the commotion was about. He took one look at his son and frowned, deeply. Gavriil’s face heated, but he seemed torn between anger and shame. With a final glare at Mae, he turned, stalking away.

Slowly, with the Magister’s apologies, the festivities continued. Mae lead Euphemia away, to where Umut was grinning against the wall.

“That was the tits,” she said.

Mae to raise a brow, “Now there is an expression I haven’t heard.”

Dorian was soon to join them, Aemilia at his back, “You, my dear, are a master of scandal and social disgrace,” he gave her a little bow.

Mae laughed, glowing with the praise, “There’s more than one way to make a man bend over.”

Umut snorted, covering her mouth.

Euphemia sighed,“I don’t get it,” she said, not really expecting to at this point.

Mae patted her head, which made her look up. The young woman’s smile was sincere, for once, “Hold onto that, if you can, my dear,” there was something sad behind her eyes as she said it.

Euphemia blinked.

Mae shook her head, “Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

“How can it be better?” the girl asked, “If I don’t understand it, I can’t decide if it’s true.”

Maevaris stared, for once rendered speechless.

Dorian blinked, having missed what Euphemia had said while speaking to Aemilia. He had noticed Mae’s lack of response, which, after having learned together at the Circle, struck him as out of place enough to catch his attention.

After a few moments, Maevaris ruffled Euphemia’s hair, “You’re such a dear,” she laughed, hugging Euphemia and turning to Aemilia. “Millie, darling, I’m stealing your sister. You can have one of mine, I don’t mind.”

“Mae, you don’t have sisters,” Aemilia smiled wryly.

Mae sniffed, “Exactly, that’s why I’m stealing yours.”

Dorian shook his head, leaning against the wall next to Umut, “See, these are times that make me glad I don’t have siblings.”

Umut shrugged, “I don’t know, an older brother that could punch the shit out of things would have come in handy.”

Dorian glanced at her.

She was frowning at the trio, still playfully bickering over Euphemia.

The felt his lips twitch into a smile, “It looks to me like you could ‘punch the shit out of things’ on your own.”

Umut snorted, then grinned, “Yeah, besides, with my luck, I’d’ve gotten some snotty younger sibling that wanted me to punch things for them.”

“Or a brother like Gavriil,” Dorian said, making the Qunari girl snort again.

Euphemia walked up to them, robes and hair a bit disheveled from extracting herself from Mae, “I don’t think I like parties,” she frowned.

Dorian waved a hand, “They’re not all like this. They’re usually much more boring, really.”

“I’m not sure I like interesting better,” Euphemia looked over her shoulder where Mae had pulled Euphemia into a dance.

Her sister was better trained, that much was obvious, but didn’t have a talent for the movement, like Maevaris.

Dorian laughed, pushing off the wall, “In that case, you really should come to the Circle. Nothing interesting ever happens there.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euphemia pisses people off for being right. Umut is unimpressed by stupid elves with ~~nice~~ stupid hair.

It hadn’t taken much to convince Theophanes to send Euphemia to the Circle of Magi. The Magister had discovered he had a difficult time convincing his youngest that anything was a bad idea, once she had decided it was a good one. And it was convincing he needed to do, for the girl would only accept a valid argument. When it had been she who suggested the Circle, the Magister was only too happy to oblige. 

And so, at the conclusion of the week of First Day, Euphemia was sent with her siblings on a ship to Minrathous. It being Euphemia’s first time on a ship, she spent the majority of the trip asking the sailors what they were doing, and why. It was Umut’s quick maneuvering that kept the Altus’s curiosity from getting her injured. The Qunari was less than thrilled to be along for the journey, but her mother had insisted it would be good for her. When they first spied Minrathous, Umut was even less inclined to agree.

Minrathous had once been glorious. The outline of it was still there, that much was obvious from the high towers and grand architecture. But it had fallen into disrepair, crushed under the influx of refugees from the Qunari war and the inevitable march of time. Fog and smoke hung over the lower regions of the city like a cloud, making the towers of the nobility and Magisters appear to soar into the sky like they were on the peak of a majestic mountaintop. 

Euphemia was entranced. Umut was unimpressed.

A carriage was waiting from them at the dock, and took them to the Drusus manor in the city. Euphemia watched out the window as the lower regions of the city went by; it reminded her of the slums in Qarinus. She would have asked if Umut agreed, but the Qunari rode with the coachman. The only difference was that the buildings were stone, blackened by smoke, but once meant for a greater purpose. Now people squatted in their halls, or built lean-tos against the walls. Euphemia could see the familiar lines and dragon reliefs under the grime, but just barely. 

As they climbed higher, it was as if years were stripped away. Less people, clean walls, cleaner air. It was markedly cooler, and Euphemia leaned out of the window a little to clear her senses. The higher vantage point offered her a better view of the city below, though it was still obscured by smoke. It seemed to her she was looking at a swarm of bees, like her grandfather had once shown her. Milling around, practically on top of each other. It was a strange sight.

The manor in Minrathous was smaller than the estate. It lacked acres of land, but boasted a large central courtyard. It didn’t take them long to get settled; tomorrow they would head to the Circle, after resting from their travels.

This, of course, let Umut and Euphemia slip away to explore their new city.

Euphemia had a few outfits she kept to blend in with lower classes. In Qarinus, Umut kept them hidden away in the hovel she shared with her mother. Here, Umut had a small room adjoining Euphemia’s, and kept them there. At first the Qunari girl had marvelled; the room was larger than her entire house. Euphemia knew the feeling. But it hadn’t stopped her from barging into the Altus’s room and declaring it was time to go out. Just as eager to explore her new surroundings, Euphemia had changed, much to the confusion of the slaves that kept the house. But they said nothing, even as the pair discovered their hidden halls and used them to leave the manor. 

Everything seemed smaller, in Minrathous. Euphemia knew it was, in fact, larger, but everything was pressed together. Smaller buildings had been added on to larger ones, making smaller streets shoot off into smaller and smaller side alleys. Euphemia wondered if she would remember the way back, but Umut didn’t seem too troubled by the prospect. 

Recently, the Liberati had started to learn how to pick pockets. Tugba did not approve, so Euphemia didn’t say anything around her. Umut was becoming rather good at it, after all, and there was no reason not to improve a skill. Euphemia couldn’t quite get the trick of it, and Umut said it didn’t matter, since she didn’t need to. The Altus could agree with her logic, even if she did feel slightly envious when her friend showed her a purse she hadn’t seen her snatch. 

“Come on,” Umut said at one point, pulling Euphemia into one of the many alleyways.   
“What is it?” the Altus asked. 

The Qunari hushed her, watching. 

And then Euphemia saw. A Magister; she vaguely recalled him from a party or something. And, next to him, chatting excitedly, was Dorian Pavus. They hadn’t exactly become friends, but Dorian seemed to gravitate towards Mae, and so did Euphemia… in fact, most people seemed to gravitate toward Mae, when she had a mind. Euphemia wasn’t sure why Umut had pulled her out of the way, she doubted they would recognize her (Aemilia hadn’t even recognized her when she ran into them by chance once before), but she watched as Umut did something quite daring. 

Pulling a hood over her head, she left the alley just behind the Magister and his son, and just barely managed to snatch the purse around Dorian’s belt. Euphemia watched, slightly amazed, as Umut returned to the alley when they had gone. 

“Let’s see if he notices,” she said, gleefully looking back out. 

Euphemia watched as well.

At first, he didn’t. In fact, the pair turned a corner and Umut was practically beaming before he’d noticed. He excused himself from his father, and went back, assuming it had simply fallen loose… and looked up to see Umut and Euphemia peeking out of the alley. The Qunari blew him a kiss. 

He scowled, and marched up to them… and then the spark of recognition. It made him stop in the middle of the street, “Euphemia?”  

His fellow Altus emerged, “Hello, Dorian. I decided to try joining the Circle.”

“I… heard,” he said. He tilted his head and folded his arms, “Why are you dressed like that?”

“To blend in,” Euphemia answered. 

Dorian blinked. Slowly, “To… blend in? Why would you ever want to do that?”

“Seeing an Altus in the slums makes people angry,” Euphemia answered, as if it were obvious. 

“But… why would you want to go to the slums?” 

The younger Altus blinked at him, “To see what it’s like. They don’t put it in books, and it’s different.”

“But why do you  _ care _ ?” Dorian seemed to have forgotten about his purse, and Umut stealthily replaced it while they talked. 

“Because I didn’t know about it before,” the girl tilted her head, “Why don’t you care?”

“Because they’re just-” Dorian stopped in his tracks. 

Umut leaned on Euphemia’s head, looking bored, “Go ahead and say it, pretty boy - we’re just peasants. I’m not offended.”

“I… well, that is…” Dorian sputtered, coloring in embarrassment. 

“Dorian! Have you found it? We’re going to be late,” Magister Pavus called, turning the corner. 

Dorian turned in surprise, reaching for his purse on instinct. When he found it, back in its rightful place, he turned again, only to find the girls gone. He looked around in surprise, only for a moment, before turning back.

“Yes! Coming!” he called, jogging to catch up with his father. 

From a small balcony in the alley Umut had climbed up to, Euphemia over her shoulder, the girls watched him retreat. 

Umut shook her head, “No one looks up.”  

Euphemia seemed about to ask a question, but was cut off.

“That would make our work harder, if they did,” a man said. 

The girls looked up. 

A young elf was on a balcony a few floors above them. He was dressed in all gray, and offered them a crooked grin, brown-black eyes twinkling, “That was some pretty good stuff back there, Vashoth.”

“Vashoth?” Euphemia asked. 

“Qunari means you follow the Qun,” Umut supplied. “I wasn’t even born to it, so I’m a Vashoth, not a Qunari. And who the hell are you?”

The elf jumped to his feet, landing on the balcony railing. He bowed low, almost mockingly, “I am Thief,” he lifted his head, and grinned. “And who might you lovely ladies be?”

“Thief isn’t a name,” Umut called back up. 

The elf shrugged, swinging down to their level, but across the way, “Why not? It’s what I do, it’s who I am. It might as well be a name, it suits like any other.”

“My name is Euphemia,” the Altus said, before Umut could argue again. Then she tilted her head, “But my mother named me Rowan.”

“Hmmm, perhaps a better choice, out here,” Thief said, propping his chin on his knee. He had one against his chest, the other dangling idly. He smiled, just the wrong side of crooked to be truly charming, “And you, my dear Vashoth?”

“... Umut,” the girl said, warily. 

The elf laughed, “And you had a problem with my name?” 

Umut took a swing at him. 

Thief just tipped over the side of the balcony, catching the side with one hand, “That’s dangerous, you know.”

“What is it you want?” Umut practically growled. 

Thief laughed, swinging back onto the balcony. He crouched on the railing this time, “I happen to be part of a group with talents similar to your own. And we’re ever seeking new talent. We could teach you a thing or two, as well.”

“Right,” Umut said. “Right before you sell me out to the guards.”

“Why would someone named Thief sell you out to the guards?” Euphemia asked, “It seems disadvantageous to him.”

“Eppie, remember that thing I keep saying?” Umut pinched the bridge of her nose, “The one about people lying?”

“But why would he lie to us?” 

Thief rested his chin in his hand, watching with amusement. 

The Altus went on, “We haven’t stolen from him, and the guards will not reward him for turning us in. As an elf, he might even be in danger of undeserved repercussions.”

“Those are a lot of big words for a little girl,” the elf said. 

“She reads,” Umut scratched her head, “Now say that last thing again in people speak.”

“Thief is an elf, so the guards may be mean for no reason,” Euphemia said. It didn’t seem to bother her that she needed to reword her argument. Umut had told her that when she used big words it made her seem like an ass, while her tutor insisted it made her sound educated. The girl wasn’t sure which was truly the case, but had noted that while her fellow Altuses spoke similarly, the people of the slums did not. It made her think that perhaps both statements were true, depending on where you were.

“That’s… true, I guess,” Umut still eyed Thief suspiciously. Something in her gut said he was hiding something from them, but she couldn’t tell Euphemia that. The girl just didn’t understand. She supposed it was what happened when you grew up pampered; you lost your instincts, “So, let me guess, I have to do something to prove my loyalty or some shit?”

“Well…” Thief tapped his chin, “Not exactly.”

Umut glared, “Not exactly is usually a yes.” 

“It’s not that you have to prove your loyalty,” Thief carefully stepped across the way, to join the girls on their balcony. He crouched down, hunching his shoulders as if sharing a terrible secret, “You have to prove your skill.”

“You just saw my skill,” Umut threw up her hands. She was uneasy with the elf being so close, and carefully positioned herself behind Euphemia. It was true that Umut was the better fighter, but an Altus, even a young Altus, could get the point across with more force. 

Thief noted the shift, but merely grinned, “I saw some of your skill. We’re not merely petty purse-snatchers, you know. Tell me, Vashoth, can you pick a lock?”

“Of course I can,” Umut said, although she could do no such thing. 

Thief hummed, tapping his chin again, “Then how about a little demonstration?” he waved at the door leading inside. 

Umut looked at the door, an ornate but heavyset metal contraption. She looked at the lock; it was decently sized, built into the door. 

Euphemia tilted her head, but said nothing.

“I don’t have my tools,” the Vashoth crossed her arms. You needed tools to pick a lock, that much she knew. 

Something flashed in Thief’s hand, and he suddenly he was holding out a thin piece of metal, “Please, use mine.”  

Umut could feel heat creeping into her cheeks, but she refused to admit defeat. So, snatching the pick, she crouched down and stared at the lock. It couldn’t be too hard, she reasoned. She knew proper idiots that could pick a lock. 

Thief tried not to laugh as she started, but he couldn’t help it. 

Umut glared at him over her shoulder, “What?” 

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”  

Umut sniffed, and set back to the lock, trying to figure out how it was supposed to work, “Or maybe I’m just doing it a different way.” 

Thief snorted, “Let me study your… technique, then,” he slid off the railing and onto the balcony itself. He made a great show of looking over the girl’s shoulder as she struggled. 

Umut tried to ignore his overly played sounds of study, ‘hm’s and ‘ah’s and even an ‘yes, I see’. Finally, with a huff of frustration, she took the pick out of the lock and handed it back, “Fine, so I don’t know how to pick a lock.”  

Thief snorted again, “It was pretty obvious.” 

Umut growled at him. 

“Why did you say you could, if you couldn’t?” Euphemia asked. 

Umut glared. 

“I know, you say people lie, but this lie didn’t benefit you in any way. You don’t even really want to join them.”

“So?” the Vashoth asked. 

It was really a bit crowded with the three of them on the balcony, and Thief took the opportunity to walk back to the other side of the street. 

Umut pointed accusingly, “He’s a smug asshole.”

Euphemia’s brows knit, “That doesn’t explain how the lie benefitted you.” 

Umut groaned in frustration. 

“Pride’s a funny thing, dear lady,” Thief said. “But I am afraid our time is at an end. Feel free to practice, Vashoth.”

With that, the elf waved and took a step off the balcony, straight down to the street. The girls couldn’t help but look over, after him. From the street, safe and sound, he waved, whistling as he sauntered away. 

“How did he do that?” Euphemia looked at the drop and around it. 

Umut rolled her eyes, “Who cares? Good riddance.”

“You don’t think we’ll see him again? He seemed to take an interest in you.” 

“Pfft, who wants the interest of some smug asshole with nice hair?”

“You thought his hair was nice?” Euphemia asked. 

Umut blushed, shaking her head, “No! His hair was stupid. He’s a stupid smug asshole with stupid hair.”

“If you say so…” the Altus said, as she found a way to start climbing back hair. 

“I do say so! Because it’s true!”

“Want to find a place to buy some lockpicks?” Euphemia looked up at the Vashoth. 

Umut opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. With a sigh, she started climbing down, too, “Yeah, but not because of the stupid hair elf!”  

Euphemia sighed, reaching the street, “I’m not sure that even made sense.” 

“You don’t make sense…” Umut grumbled. It was, all in all, not quite her day.

 

* * *

 

Euphemia’s try out for the Circle was the following day. 

Senior Enchanter Despoina Metaxas arrived at the Drusus manor just past breakfast, impeccably dressed in plain but masterfully crafted robes. She wore her steely gray hair in a severe bun, tight enough to pull at the skin of her face. She had deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, and a hooked nose that all added to her rather stony appearance. Her lips were carefully painted black, her only other make up kohl around her eyes. They, too, were severe, gray as the prevalent fog. She seemed a woman drained of color and comfort, and wanting for neither. 

“So, you wish to join the Minrathous Circle, do you?” she asked, sitting in the foyer. She had Euphemia stand before her, and the girl thought she rather looked like she had a rod stuck up her spine.

“Yes,” she said. Then considered, “Senior Enchanter.”

“Do not make that mistake again,” the woman said, glaring, “Your father may be a Magister, but that will not hold sway on my decision, and I will not have rude children admitted into my academy.”

“It isn’t yours. You’re not the First Enchanter.”

“Excuse me?” Metaxas somehow managed to glare more severely.

“The Circle isn’t yours,” Euphemia repeated, “Decisions are made by the First Enchanter. Aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Enchanter Metaxas said through clenched teeth, “But that does not make the Circle any less  _ mine _ , and it will be  _ my _ decision whether or not you are permitted entry.”

“But how is the Circle yours if you don’t make the decisions?”

The Enchanter took a long breath in through her nose, “The Circle is mine because I have dedicated years to its service. I have devoted myself to ensuring that it continues to be one of the foremost academies of magi in all Thedas, and fought to protect its long and illustrious history. I have given my  _ life _ for the Circle, and so it as much mine as it is anyone else’s.”

Euphemia’s brows furrowed, “You don’t sound very happy about that.” 

Metaxas pursed her lips, “And what is that supposed to mean?”

The Altus tilted her head, “I don’t understand. Why have you put so much effort into something that doesn’t make you happy?”

“It is my duty.” 

“Why?”

“It…” The Enchanter’s eyes grew distant for a moment, then she shook her head, “Nevermind, child. I am here to judge your suitability to join the Circle, not discuss my personal affairs.”

“As you will, Enchanter,” Euphemia said. She would have to remember to ask Umut about it later. 

“Very good. Now, what can you do?”

“I can heal. And summon a wisp.”

“A sure Creationist, then,” Metaxas said, as if it were an insult, “Can you do anything else?”

“I can use Mind Blast,” the girl said. Theophanes had insisted, before she left, that she not tell anyone about her Dalish magic. It gave the wrong impression, he said. Euphemia hadn’t understood, but Umut had later said that it might be a good idea to keep a few tricks to herself, just in case. That, at least, had made some sense to the Altus. And so she kept it to herself. 

Metaxas snapped her fingers, and one of the slaves she brought with her stepped forward. 

He was tall, for an elf, and had a scar running from his cheek over his shaven scalp. The eye there was misty, and it was unclear whether or not he could see through it. She ushered the elf over to the girl, and he stopped a foot from her. 

Euphemia found his gaze odd. Strangely empty, and distance. 

“Demonstrate,” the Enchanter said. 

Euphemia looked up at the elf in front of her, and took a step forward. She crooked her finger to beckon him down, and he crouched. 

Metaxas arched a brow, but said nothing as the girl called the Fade to her. 

The girl’s hands glowed blue, and she rested one gently on the elf’s temple, the other just in front of the hazy eye. She channeled healing into him, and it seemed to stir the man. 

“I didn’t mean-” the Enchanter rose.

“Shh,” Euphemia said, concentrating. 

Metaxas stiffened, then huffed, sitting once again. It wasn’t like the girl was likely to succeed. The elf had been blind in one eye as long as she had owned him; a punishment from a former master. The Enchanter was an Entropist, herself, and used imagined pain on her slaves, rather than physical disfigurements.

It was some silent twenty minutes that Euphemia spent in deep concentration as she healed the elf’s eye. The Enchanter looked on in disbelief, wondering when the Altus to give up. The elf remained completely still, though his good eye seemed to slowly focus in the girl. 

“There,” the girl said gently, wiping the sweat from her brow as she pulled her hands away. 

The elf reached a slow hand up to his face, gently running his fingertips under his now clear and functioning eye. It was blue, which was different from his other eye, which was green. He still seemed distant, slow to react. 

Metaxas snapped her fingers, and he stood immediately, walking over to her. He leaned down, and she grabbed his chin, tilting his head to examine the Altus’s work. With a huff, she released him, “I meant to have you demonstrate the Mind Blast.” 

Euphemia sat, tired from her exertion, “You didn’t specify. Enchanter.”

“That… is true,” Metaxas grit her teeth. Then she rose, chin held slightly up, “My business here is concluded. Good day to you, Altus.”

“Good day, Enchanter.”  

Metaxas took her leave without ceremony, brushing past the slave that appeared to offer to escort her to the door. 

Euphemia sighed, rising to move to the couch in the room. She laid down, curling up and falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Hastam,” Metaxas said, as they walked through the streets of Minrathous. 

The elf turned to look at her. 

“Is your eye causing you pain?”

“No, master.” 

The Enchanter nodded curtly, “And you can see clearly?”

“Yes, master.” 

` “Really?” Metaxas rounded on him. 

He stopped as she did, “Yes, master.”

The Enchanter sniffed, then spun on her heel and continued walking. 

Hastam followed without comment, just a few paces behind, head lowered in subservience. 

It was how they entered the Circle, and the Senior Enchanter marched straight through the halls until she reached the officer of the First Enchanter Bion Spiros. Here, she knocked.

“Enter,” came the voice behind the door. 

Metaxas swung the door open in one fluid motion, then sighed, “Really, Bion?” 

There was a Templar woman in the room putting her armor back on. She wasn’t a terribly attractive woman, but Metaxas knew that pretty wasn’t the First Enchanter’s type.

“What? I knew it was you,” the man replied, rolling his eyes. He had already fixed his robes, which spoke more of his experience with such trysts than the simplicity of their wear. 

The Templar continued to adjust her armor without a trace of shame. 

It made Metaxas sniff as she entered the room, Hastam closing the door behind her, “I have concluded my interview of the latest Drusus spawn.” 

Bion pinched the bridge of his nose, “Please tell me you didn’t call her that to her face.” 

“Of course not. Not that I didn’t want to. The child is more brash than even the eldest of the brood.”

“More brash than Gavriil?” the First Enchanter let his hand drop, “During her interview? You haven’t been gone more than forty minutes, Des. How bad could it have been?”

“The girl is clearly undisciplined and accustomed to getting her own way,” Metaxas raised her chin imperiously, “She  _ dared _ to  _ question _ me.”

The Templar snorted, earning a glare from the Enchanter.

“Maker’s breath,” Bion said, “How old is the bastard?”

“Nine,” Metaxas returned her attention to him, “Ten this year.”

“I have no idea how you manage to keep them all straight,” the First Enchanter  waved a dismissal as the Templar saluted him, finally finished dressing. 

She put on her helmet then, and quietly left the office. 

The man turned back, lacing his fingers together on the desk, “Anyway, I take it you are not recommending her for the Circle, then?”

“Quite the contrary,” Metaxas said, as if he were an idiot, “She has my  _ full _ recommendation.”

“Des, we’ve known each other a long time - so forgive my language, but what the fuck do you mean by that?”

“The girl needs a proper education, with proper discipline, which she is clearly not receiving at home,” the Enchanter said. Then she snapped her fingers, and pointed to the First Enchanter’s desk, causing Hastam to walk forward, “She at least has the  _ skill _ required, as opposed to her simpering sister.”

Bion stood with a sigh. He stared at the slave, not sure what it was he was looking at. Hastam had been close to Metaxas’s side for five years now, but he had never taken much notice of the elf. The slave’s wonky eye gave him the creeps. Except…

“Fasta vass,” he said, stepping forward, “She fixed his eye.”

“Indeed,” Metaxas crossed her arms,  “I told her to demonstrate her abilities, meaning a Mind Blast. Instead, she healed him.”

“That certainly is impressive,” Bion said,turning his gaze back to his colleague, “A Spirit Healer, you think?”

“Perhaps one day,” the Enchanter said, with a derisive snort, “As it stands, she still lacks knowledge. And  _ discipline _ .”

“Yes, so you’ve said,” the First Enchanter said, rolling his eyes again. He sat behind his desk, picking papers off the floor until he found the application for the latest Drusus child. Euphemia, the mystery child that had only appeared in the Magister’s household a year previous. There were many rumors about the girl, but the Magister hadn’t confirmed anything. All that was known for sure was her illegitimacy, “Very well. She will be accepted as an apprentice starting tomorrow.”

“Good. Good day, Bion.”

“Good day, Des,” Bion said, signing off on the girl’s paperwork. He wondered idly if he would come to regret the decision. 


	7. The Circle of Magi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euphemia's first day at the Circle, featuring a long list of names belonging to other apprentices. And generous amounts of me making shit up as I go because we have so little information on the Imperium in reality.

Euphemia got out of the carriage slowly. They were in front of the gates to the Circle of Minrathous. The large gate, gold bars twisted into the shape of a dragon in the center, was flanked by golden dragon posts on either side. When the young Altus approached the gate, it opened inward with no clear assistance from anyone. Euphemia watched it with interest as she walked through, nearly running into the two templars that had come to meet her. She looked up at them.

“Euphemia Drusus?” one asked. They both wore full plate, so it was hard to discern much about them.

The girl nodded.

“We’re to escort you to the apprentice quarters. This way.”

The Altus studied her surroundings as they walked down the long, paved walkway to the Circle. Every few feet, the path was flanked by more golden dragon statues, at least twice the height of the templars. They all sat, head craned at an upward angle, viel fire pouring from their mouths in an arch between each pair. While an impressive display of magic, it was overshadowed by the building it lead to.

The Circle tower was tall, rising so high that Euphemia had to crane her neck to look up at it. Halfway to the entrance, the path turned into a long set of stairs. Walls rose up on either side, sunlight flashing off the white stone almost painfully. There were older students on the ramparts provided, practicing spells on their own, showing off or in small groups deep in discussion. There were templars in archways, but they didn’t seem to be paying much attention. Mostly, they seemed to be bored.

Euphemia followed her guides inside, blinking at the change in light. There were yellow mage lights at regular intervals, but it didn’t compare to the sunlight outside. When her vision cleared, she took in the arched, high ceilinged hallways with green tapestries decorated with the Tevinter dragon and snake. There were smaller, less ornate dragon statues here, and braziers for incense hung off the sides of them. It gave the building a heady, spicy scent. It made Euphemia feel stifled, but it didn’t seem to bother the templars. Or the other mages they passed in the halls, all deeply focused one way or the other.

The templars took her to a large room full of smaller rooms along the wall. They showed her to an empty one near the corner, but not quite in it.

“This one is yours,” one of the templars said simply, “The Senior Enchanter will come to collect you for lessons in an hour; take this time to unpack and settle in.”

With that, the templars left, armor clincking noisily on the stone. Euphemia looked out the door for some time, then turned to study the room. It was small and tidy, with a bed situated under a window. A long chest sat at the foot of it, and a wardrobe was in one corner next to the door. A simple desk sat in the other corner, parchment, ink, and quills provided.

Euphemia’s belongings, what she had been allowed, sat on a valise on the bed. It was mostly robes, sundries, and several books she had been studying on her own. Most were on the elven language and lore, though some were about demons and more abstract aspects of the Fade. These she stacked in a corner of the chest. The robes she hung in the wardrobe, smalls and similar items disappearing into drawers beneath. The valise she slid under the bed. With some time left after this, the girl pulled out two of the tomes from the chest, and began translating the elven into Tevene.

Some time later, Senior Enchanter Metaxas appeared, Hastam ever her shadow, “I see you have finished your unpacking,” the woman eyed the near empty room suspiciously.

“Yes, Enchanter,” Euphemia said, finishing the sentence she was on before setting the quill aside.

Metaxas sniffed, marching over and lifting the tomb imperiously, “And what is this you’re scribbling out of?”

“It’s a book describing elven mages known as arcane warriors. I believe with study the art could be revived and given new purpose.”

“What foolishness,” the Enchanter snorted, “As if we need anything from a people we conquered.”

“You believe a study of past techniques to be a waste of time,” Euphemia tilted her head slightly, “Enchanter.”

“That is not what I said, _apprentice_ ,” the Senior Enchanter narrowed her eyes and dropped the book unceremoniously, “If elven magic had any sort of merit, then how did we defeat them?”

“I do not know, Enchanter.”

Metaxas smiled, a thin, cruel thing, “Of course not. That is why you are here. Come then, _apprentice_ , it is time you learned of the might of the Imperium.”

Euphemia slid out of her seat, pushing the chair into the desk. She took the time to neaten her desk and put away her books.

Metaxas seemed to approve of this, waiting until she was finished to lead Euphemia through several hallways and out onto the ramparts.  From there they walked to a small amphitheatre, several apprentices around Euphemia’s age already seated and waiting.

The Senior Enchanter walked to the floor of the amphitheatre, where a chalkboard and several books were set up. The other apprentices sat in the first two rows, and Euphemia took a seat at the edge of one of the benches. She noticed the others had blank journals with them for notes, and books of their own. She made a mental note to procure these items herself.

“Drusus, stand up,” Metaxas said.

Euphemia did as she was bid.

“Apprentices, meet your newest comrade, Euphemia Drusus.”

The other apprentices stared at her, and Euphemia studied them. There were two blond girls sitting together in the first row that were identical in appearance. Next to them was a handsome, dark skinned boy with blue eyes. On the other side of the aisle was a tan girl with dark brown hair in a braid, and next to her were two boys. One was sallow with limp blond hair, while the other had thick black hair he wore half up and a prominent hook nose. In the second row, there was one student on the same bench as Euphemia, a steely-eyed elf. Across the aisle was a tan, blond boy.

As the girl’s gaze met his, the boy stood. He held out a hand, “Germanus Michelakakis.”

Euphemia shook.

Metaxas nodded her approval shortly, which prompted the others to rise and introduce themselves as well. The blond girls were Aquilina and Flaviana Ionnidis, and next to them was Aeson Megalos. The other bench held Melpomene Antoniou, followed by Nerva Michelakakis and Vinicius Metaxas. The elf was Efstathios Simonides.

After everyone had sat down once again, Senior Enchanter Metaxas immediately began her lesson. It was a long, dry explanation of the Fade, the Veil, and the difference between resonant and ambient energies. Euphemia found it all extremely interesting, and flinched in surprise when something slid into her lap. She looked down to find a blank journal, and looked over at Germanus. He offered her an extra quill and ink, and she inclined her head in thanks. He nodded back, and the girl was soon scribbling notes away, copying the Senior Enchanter’s diagrams with as much precision as she could muster.

When a bell tolled the hour, the other apprentices let out a collective sigh of relief. The Senior Enchanter frowned at them, but waved them off. Euphemia watched as the others gathered up their things, and it was once again Germanus who took the lead.

“It’s time for the midday meal,” he said.

Euphemia nodded, offering him back his quill and ink.

He packed them away in a bag he slung over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” the girl said.

Germanus shrugged, leading the way through the halls. He looked a few years older than Eppie, and frowned at the four in front of them, “Well, I know Senior Enchanter isn’t much for explaining things to new apprentices, and you can’t count on that lot for anything. At least, you shouldn’t. Families are grooming them to be the next Archon, so they won’t hesitate to stab you in the back to get ahead.”

“Is your family not grooming you to be the next Archon?”  

Germanus smiled grimly, “My family is a branch off the main family. Nerva’s my cousin. They expect me to help _him_ become the next Archon, and earn the main family’s favor that way.”

“Why?”

“Because then we’ll have more power. Or so they scheme. I don’t see how one more body to step on will stand out against all the others.”

“You’re doing it again,” Vinicius said, appearing at Germanus’s other side.

“Doing what again?” the older boy scowled.

“Being gloomy about the future,” Vinicius pointed at the other boy’s brows, “Look, you’re already getting wrinkles.”

“I am not,” Germanus replied, rubbing at his forehead.

Euphemia looked around him, at the other apprentice.

He smiled at her and waved, “So, welcome to the Steel League. Home to all those needing more discipline, or too big for their robes.”

“Too big for their robes?” Euphemia asked.

Germanus said, “It’s an expression. It means that the Steel Rod thinks that they’re arrogant boobs that think too highly of themselves. She’s right, too.”

“So my illustrious mother makes herself their mentor, and refuses to coddle them,” Vinicius added, “She’s the Steel Rod, if you haven’t guessed.”

“I see,” Euphemia said, “So the Senior Enchanter is your mother?”

“Unfortunately,” Vinicius held up a hand, “Don’t get me wrong, she is my mother, after all, but well… you have met her.”

“You do not seem much alike,” Euphemia said.

Vinicius rolled his eyes, “I’m told I take after my father. Though I haven’t the slightest clue who he is. Other than a Primal mage. Which, honestly, doesn’t really narrow down my possibilities.”

“The Steel Rod is an Entropy mage,” Germanus supplied, as they entered the large cafeteria. Other apprentices with different mentors were already seated at tables, talking and eating. Germanus and Vinicius led Euphemia to a table where the others in their group were already seated. Slaves brought the food to them, “I’m more of an Arcanist. And you?”

“The Senior Enchanter called me a ‘sure Creationist’,” Euphemia replied, watching the slaves with interest. She had noticed a lack of elves in the apprentice wing, and the difference here was striking in comparison.

Vinicius pulled a face, “How unfortunate for you. She holds the utmost contempt for Creationist.”

“Why?” Euphemia asked.

Germanus noticed her gaze, “They don’t let apprentices keep slaves, too tempting to have them do our work for us.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Vinicius said, answering her question, “It’s actually an Entropist/Creationist thing. Death versus life sort of thing, I think.”

“That makes no sense,” Euphemia said, returning to the conversation.

Vinicius shrugged, “Neither do a lot of things, but hey, it happens.”

Euphemia frowned, trying to make the pieces fit together.

“You may want to eat,” Germanus said, “We have more lessons after this, and you won’t get more until the evening meal.”

Euphemia sighed, but did as the boy suggested. She frowned at her plate, pushing the meat off to one side.

Vinicius noticed, and immediately asked if he could have it.

Germanus rolled his eyes, muttering something about his friend’s appetite.

As Euphemia pushed the meat onto Vinicius’s plate, one of the Ionnidis twins leaned over.

“Adopting another bastard, Germanus?” she asked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She smiled sweetly at Vinicius, and the boy returned it.

Germanus scowled, and opened his mouth to respond.

“I’m not a bastard,” Euphemia said without a hint of emotion, “Bastards are fatherless children.”

“No, they’re illegitimate children,” the girl said, a scrunch in her nose the only indication of her displeasure.

Euphemia continued eating, but looked the girl in the eye, “Illegitimate children are children born out of wedlock, regardless of whether or not they know their father. I am illegitimate, but I am not a bastard.”

“Oh, and what makes you so smart?” the girl frowned now.

“I ask questions,” Euphemia replied, “And read.”

“Are you implying I don’t read, you little-”

“Leave off, Flavi,” Aeson said, from the girl’s other side. He had an easy smile, “Don’t waste your time on them. They aren’t worth your notice.”

Aquilina, on Aeson’s other side, with his arm wrapped around her, giggled, “It’s so silly getting worked up over a little kid. It’s like you’re jealous or something.”

“I am not!” Flaviana blushed, in anger or embarrassment, “Who would be jealous of some gutter trash?”

“My dear Flaviana!” Vinicius declared, hand fluttering over his heart, “I had no idea you held such feelings for me! I must admit, I’m flattered.”

As Aeson and Aquilina laughed, Flaviana turned a darker shade of red, stabbing her food with much more force than necessary. Electricity sparked off her fork, dancing over the table.

“Ah, is this what they mean by a spark of attraction?” Vinicius asked, imitating a swoon.

Germanus rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help his smile.

“I had no idea you felt so strongly!”

“Shut up, bastard,” Flaviana said, sparks dancing up her arms.

“Oh, you got it right that time,” Germanus said, smiling wryly.

Flaviana glared at him.

Vinicius stood, “How can I stay silent, when a lady displays such passion?” he took both of Flaviana’s hands in his, leaning down on one knee. He either ignored the electricity, or had cast a spell to defend himself, “Flaviana, dearest Flaviana, I deeply apologize, but although you clearly feel so strongly for me, I cannot return such affection! I am afraid I am already utterly devoted to another!”

“Let go of me,” Flaviana scowled, snatching her hands back, “I don’t care who you like, just keep your dirty bastard hands off me.”

Vinicius looked about to continue, but he was interrupted.

“Sit down, before the Steel Rod hears about you making a scene,” Efstathios said. He sat by himself, on the opposite end of the table.

Euphemia looked at him curiously, and he scowled at her. She tilted her head.

Vinicius cleared his throat and returned to his seat, “Well, I suppose the knife ear has a point.”

Flaviana huffed, moving further away from their end of the table.

Euphemia looked back to Vinicius, “Why did you call him that?”

Vinicius blinked at her, “Called who what?”  

“Efstathios,” she said, brows furrowing, “You just called him a mean name.”

“What are you talking about?” Vinicius said, “All I said was knife ear.”

“That’s a mean name,” Euphemia said, as if she didn’t quite believe the older boy didn’t know.

“It’s just another name for elf,” Germanus frowned.

Euphemia frowned at them, “No, it isn’t. It’s derogatory.”

“Hold old are you?” Vinicius asked, appearing impressed.

“Nine,” Euphemia replied, “But I don’t see what that has to do with calling Efstathios a mean name.”

“Nothing, but I thought you were like... seven.”

Germanus raised a brow, “Seven, really?”  

Vinicius shrugged.

Germanus sighed, rolling his eyes. Then he looked at Euphemia again, “Who told you knife-ear was bad?”

“My mother,” Euphemia said.

Vinicius clapped his hands, “Oh, intrigue! And who is your mother?”

“Father said not to tell anyone. He said it might get her hurt.”

“He’s right,” Germanus said, frowning at Vinicius. By that time, everyone seemed to be getting up and leaving. The boy stood, “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

“Ugh, definitely not,” Vinicius agreed, rising as well.

Euphemia followed them back to the amphitheatre, but on the way, Efstathios tugged her aside.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, glaring at her.

Euphemia blinked down at him. He was closer to her age, maybe a little younger, “Do what?”  

Efstathios sighed in irritation, “Defend me to the others.”

Euphemia tilted her head, “I wasn’t defending you. I wanted to know why they called you a mean name. It didn’t make sense to me.”

“You…” the elf started, then paused, “You really wanted to know?”

“Yes,” Euphemia said.

Efstathios blinked at her, then nodded, “It’s because I’m an elf.”

Euphemia felt her brow furrow, “Of course it’s because you’re an elf. But I want to know why Vinicius and Germanus called you it. It makes no sense.”  

Efstathios shook his head, “You make no sense. Aren’t you an Altus?”  
“Yes. I don’t see how they connect.”

“You-” the elf started, then cut himself off with a sigh. He grabbed Euphemia’s wrist, pulling her along, “We don’t have time for this.”

“Will you explain it to me later, then?” Euphemia asked.

Efstathios rolled his eyes, “Yeah, sure, whatever.”  

Senior Enchanter Metaxas frowned at them, as they were the last ones to sit down. The chalkboard and books had been cleared away, and the others were buzzing with excitement. Euphemia sat next to Germanus, while Efstathios went to sit on his own again. Euphemia watched after him.

Germanus leaned over to whisper to her, “Get ready for the best part of being in the Steel League.”  

Euphemia tilted her head, not really understanding.

However, Senior Enchanter Metaxas cleared her throat, “Ionnidis F and Metaxas, I hear you caused a disturbance at the midday meal.”

Vinicius looked petulant, but Flaviana practically beamed as she stood, near skipping to one end of the amphitheatre.

The Senior Enchanter glared at her son as he passed, but made no further remark, “Michelakakis G, since you have already been so inclined to help today, you will be Drusus’s and Simonides’s  partner.”

“Of course,” Germanus sighed, standing and waving that Euphemia should follow.

She did, watching as the Senior Enchanter paired off the others. They all took up corners of the amphitheatre, and the Senior Enchanter moved to watch over them.

“So, ever heard of a magical duel?” Germanus asked.

“I read about them,” Euphemia said.

Efstathios snorted.

“Well, it’ll probably be nothing like what you’ve read,” Germanus said, frowning at the elf, “But it’s what we’re doing now. Senior Enchanter Metaxas believes in a more practical approach to learning magic.”

From there, Germanus faced off against Efstathios to demonstrate. Euphemia kept one eye on them, and the other on her fellow apprentices. It was clear they were already used to this routine, attacking each other with control and precision. When Germanus finished his demonstration, he had Euphemia face off against him.

It wasn’t much of a match.

For one, most of Euphemia’s attack spells were Dalish spells, and she wasn’t going to use those. For another thing, Germanus clearly knew a lot more about casting than she did. Which, given his age, wasn’t surprising. So the match ended up being more of a teaching match than an actual match. And then Germanus had Euphemia and Efstathios face each other, which he took as an opportunity to teach them both.

By the time the lesson was over, Euphemia was sweating and exhausted. She followed the others back to the apprentice quarters, and then was shown to the baths. Euphemia, of course, was in the female baths, and hardly noticed the other apprentices as she bathed.

“Eppie!”

Euphemia stirred at the familiar voice, blinking herself awake as Aemilia came over.

Her sister smiled, “I heard you were put in the Steel League,” she helped her exhausted sister finish bathing, “That’s where Gavriil was, too. Before his Harrowing, I mean.”

“His what?”

“It’s a test you go through before becoming a mage. I think Sosigenes is scheduled for his this year. I’ll be a few years yet.”

“I see,” Euphemia said, pulling herself out of the water to dry off. She felt like she was about to fall asleep. She’d never used so much magic in one day before, and she didn’t think she could cast another spell if her life depended on it. She nodded along to Aemilia’s chattering, as her sister helped steer her back to her quarters. Once there, Euphemia fell into bed, asleep before her sister even realized she’d laid down.

 

* * *

 

Euphemia woke to a knock at her door. Blinking and rubbing her eyes, she yawned as she slid out of bed. Someone, most likely Aemilia, had taken the time to tuck her into bed. Euphemia felt some gratitude for that, as she went to open the door.

 

It was Efstathios, standing awkwardly with a plate of food, “I saw you missed the evening meal,” he scowled, “And those other idiots are off being idiots, so. Here.”

The elf thrust the plate forward, almost hitting Euphemia with it.

The girl blinked, then took it from him, “Thank you. Would you like to come in?”

“Why?” Efstathios asked, brows furrowing.

Euphemia blinked, “You said you would explain why they called you a mean name.”

The elf opened his mouth, then closed it with a scowl,“Fine.”

He walked in as the Altus moved aside. He sat at the desk, fidgeting with his robes.

Euphemia sat on the chest at the foot of the bed, eating slowly, “You said it was because you were an elf.”

“And you said you knew that,” Efstathios replied, crossing his arms.

The girl tilted her head, “Yes, I did. But my mother told me that people call elves mean names because they’re mean people. Germanus and Vinicius didn’t seem like mean people. They helped me.”

Efstathios stared at her for a long time, “You… didn’t grow up in Tevinter, did you?”  

Euphemia shook her head, “I grew up in Ansburg. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” the elf said, as if processing the word, “Listen, Altus-”

“You can call my Euphemia,” the girl interrupted, “Or Eppie. My sister and Umut call me that.”

“Euphemia,” the elf started again, glaring, “Elves… aren’t people, here. I’m lucky I have magic; it makes me better than most. Most of us are slaves. We’re like things, to them.”

“Them?”  

Efstathios waved his hand. “Them- you Altuses, everyone.”

“I don’t think you’re a thing,” Euphemia said, “You’re a person.”

Efstathios made a strangled noise.

Euphemia tilted her head.

“Oh, she gets worse believe me.”

Efstathios looked up in surprise as Umut tumbled over the bed, through the window, to sit next to Euphemia.

“You have no idea how hard it was to sneak in here,” the Vashoth complained, flopping back against the bed, “Maker damned Templars...”

“Hello, Umut,” Euphemia said, as if all this were completely natural, “This is Efstathios.”

Umut waved by lifting her arm up and letting it drop again.

Euphemia looked back to Efstathios, “And this is Umut.”

The Vashoth to snorted, “Think he figured that one out himself.”  

“Why is she here?” Efstathios said. Then he jumped up, looking out into the hall, “Do you know how much trouble we could be in?”

“Oh relax, I just wanted to see if I could do it,” Umut sat up, “I’ll be out in like, ten minutes. Tops.”

“That’s not helping!” Efstathios said, “You should go! Now! Before someone sees you!”

“You can leave if you’re uncomfortable,” Euphemia said, “Then only I’ll get in trouble.”

“Why?” Efstathios scowled, “Do you think I’m afraid?”

“Well, yeah,” Umut said, “Your ears are twitching.”

The Vashoth grinned as the elf clutched the offending parties to his head with a sound of disgust.

Euphemia, for her part, stood to put the plate on the desk, “Umut is my friend. There’s no reason for you to get in trouble for her.”

“Your… friend?” Efstathios asked.

“Don’t think about it too hard, it’ll just hurt your head,” Umut said, “And I’m getting paid.”

“You’re… getting paid,” the elf said, “To… be her friend?”

Umut shrugged, “Pretty much.”

“Do people really think of elves as things?” Euphemia asked, but the question was directed at Umut.

The Vashoth shrugged, “Yeah, that’s a good way to put it. Human and Qunari slaves, too. But elves especially.”

“That makes no sense,” Euphemia said, “Elves aren’t things. They’re elves.”

“Listen, I know that, you know that, and twitchy ears knows it too,” Umut said, eliciting another glare from the elf, “But that’s just the way things are.”

“Well, someone should change that,” Euphemia said.

Efstathios snorted, “What, like you?”

Euphemia looked at him, “Why not?”

The elf looked at her as if she’d grown another head.

“Uh, because it’s suicide?” Umut replied, “First you’d have to be Archon, and the last one that tried that got murdered.”

“I wouldn’t have to be Archon,” Euphemia sat next to the Vashoth, “The Magisterium votes on laws. I would just have to be a Magister.”

“But the Archon holds the _real_ power,” Umut argued, “He’s like… like the whole triumvirate in one.”

“No, Euphemia’s right.”

Efstathios practically jumped, while Umut leap up into a crouch.

Leaning against the door frame, Vinicius smiled, “The Archon _can_ overturn laws made by the Magisterium, but it makes him pretty unpopular. Their only real power is appointing new Magisters. If you really wanted to end slavery, you’d need a popular vote in the Magisterium to carry the motion.”

“Like that’ll ever happen…” Umut muttered, eyeing the Altus suspiciously.

“Also very true,” Vinicius agreed, “So, better not to waste your time with wild fancies. The Imperium will never change.”

“Why not?” Euphemia asked.

“Because it’s how things are,” Efstathios replied.

Vinicius nodded in agreement, “Everyone that’s tried to change things ends up either dead or wishing they were. Trust me, you can’t make everyone change their minds.”

“I don’t have to make everyone change their mind,” Euphemia replied, “Just enough people to pass the vote.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Efstathios demanded.

Euphemia looked at him, then back to Vinicius, “Vinicius, you shouldn’t call Efstathios knife-ear,” the word felt odd on her tongue, “It’s a mean name, and he’s not a thing.”

Vinicius blinked rapidly in surprise. Efstathios’s jaw dropped, and Umut put her face in her palm.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Vinicius laughed, “Well, I suppose that’s one way,” he looked over at the elf.

Efstathios shut his jaw with an audible click.

The Altus bowed, “I’m sorry for calling you a knife-ear. I shan’t do it again.”

“... it’s fine,” the elf glared in confusion, “I’m used to it.”

“Just because you’re used to it doesn’t make it fine,” Euphemia said, “And I’m going to change it.”

“What? You’re just gonna jump in front of all your _legitimate_ siblings to become a Magister?” Umut asked.

“Or change their minds,” Euphemia replied.

Vinicius arched a brow in amusement, “You make it sound easy.”

Euphemia looked to him, “It’s simple. That doesn’t make it easy. Besides, it worked on you.”

Vinicius snorted, then laughed. He shook his head, “You’re something else, kid. You do that, and I’ll work on becoming the Archon. That way no one tries to stop it.”

“Deal,” Euphemia said, holding out her hand to shake.

The teen had meant is as a joke, and was about to say so, but the words died on his lips as he looked into the girl’s eyes. She regarded him with a kind of serious intensity he’d only ever seen one other person in his life. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile. He thought he might understand why the girl so infuriated his mother. He shook, “Deal.”

Efstathios threw up his hands, “You’re both incredible idiots. And you’ll never do it.”

“Well, if I don’t become Archon,” Vinicius said, slinging an arm over Efstathios’s shoulders, “You can have the job.”

“An elven Archon?” Umut said, before erupting into laughter. She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle it behind her hands.

“It would certainly help make a difference,” Euphemia said, in all seriousness.

Which only caused the Vashoth to laugh harder. Euphemia frowned at her as Efstathios pushed away from Vinicius, glaring at the human. He grinned in response.

“What is going on here?”

The four froze, turning to look at the door. Senior Enchanter Metaxas stood, glaring into the room with pursed lips. Efstathios turned to look at Umut in horror, only to discover that the Vashoth was already gone. Instead, he looked to Euphemia. She was the only one of them that seemed calm, and tilted her head as she answered the Enchanter.

“Nothing, Enchanter. We were just discussing politics.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than expected. Blah, originally thought to do a time skip, then decided against it. I wanted to explore the thought of the Minrathous Circle, and skipping the time would have skipped that too. Good thing, or there would likely be no Efstathios, Germanus or Vinicius. (Or any of the other apprentices, to be honest.)
> 
> Hope anyone reading is enjoying! Kudos and comments are much appreciated if you are!


	8. Mentors and Bad Liars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checking in with Umut's adventures in roguery and Euphemia gets in trouble. Kind of.

 “Lose your handler, little Vashoth?”

Umut jumped so high she stumbled back and fell on her ass.

“Maker’s bloody balls!” she shouted, as Thief laughed. She glared at the elf as she picked herself up, then looked around to see if anyone else was nearby.

“Practicing, I see,” Thief said, composing himself.

“Hmf,” Umut snorted, ignoring him as she returned to picking the lock on the door. They were in the warehouse district, by the docks.

“You’re much better now,” Thief said, grinning his crooked grin, “Isn’t she, Sulan?”

“You’d already be inside the building,” a man rumbled from behind the Vashoth. A silver-skinned Qunari leaned against the building, arms crossed across his chest.

Umut ignored him, smirking as the lock clicked and the door opened.

Thief clapped, “Oh, well done.”

Umut scowled at him, “Is there something you want?”  

“I already told you, I am ever seeking new talent,” Thief replied, grinning, “Right, Sulan?”

“Your habit of picking up strays is going to get you killed one day,” the Qunari replied.

Thief arched a brow, “Probably.”

Umut shook her head at them, then peered inside the warehouse. It looked to be full of wooden crates and barrels brought in from ships, but nothing in particular jumped out at her.

She hadn’t actually planned to steal anything. The Vashoth had merely wanted to prove, to herself, that she could break into the place. with Thief and his Qunari friend watching, however…

“The _Valerius_ used this warehouse for a shipment of Antivan wine…”

Umut jumped back in surprise, nearly running into Thief.

The elf caught her and pushed her gently, back to her feet.

She eyed him suspiciously, then looked at the man who’d spoken just over her shoulder.

It was another elf, with brown hair and green eyes. His entire face seemed to sag from the weight of his frown, and his hair hung limply around his face. His eyes were watery, as if he were about to cry. He wore a gray cloak over drab, indistinctive clothing.

“Antivan wine? I’m in!” another elf, this one a redheaded woman, stepped out from behind the morose elf. she had her hair cut short, and shaved up the sides. Two thin braids were tucked over her shoulder, and she wore dusty leather armor that had clearly seen some use. There were black tattoos around her eyes, making them stand out on her face.

“Who the hell are you two?” Umut demanded, crossing her arms.

The redhead jumped in front of her, holding out her hand, “Azar, at your service! As long as you’re looking for someone to set something on fire, steal some shit or catch a nobleman’s eye, that is.”

“And the sad fellow behind her is Suledin,” Thief said, looking in the warehouse himself as Umut reluctantly shook hands with the energetic elf.

“If you’re gonna steal something, you better hurry it up,” a dwarven woman said, walking up to the group from around the corner, “Izzy’s only got so many dirty jokes he can tell to distract the guards before they get bored.”

“I think you’re underestimating how many dirty jokes Izzy knows,” Azar replied, but ducked into the warehouse anyways. She was quickly followed by Suledin and Sulan, and the dwarf woman leaned against the wall casually.  

“I more meant that he only knows so many _good_ ones,” she said. She eyed Umut from under a gray hood, blue eyes sparkling, “I’m Ylva. You must be the Vashoth Thief’s been going on about.”

“What by the Maker’s hairy _balls_ is going on here?” Umut asked, glaring at Thief.

The elf held up his hands, still grinning, “Call it a test run, my dear Vashoth.”

“A test run of what?”

“How you work with us.”

“Who says I want to-”

“Oh, trust me, you want to,” Ylva said, cutting in.

Umut whirled on her, glaring.

The dwarf shrugged, “Everybody needs a mentor, kid. Thief’s about as good as you’ll get in this line of work. Trust me, I’d know.”

“Coming from you, that’s quite the compliment,” Thief said, “Though, I’ll admit, you aren’t the only one I was looking to recruit.”

“What do you mean?” Umut asked, watching as the three who had went into the warehouse emerged once again. Sulan had a crate in his arms, while Azar carried two smaller barrels and Suledin played with something shiny.

“Where’s your mage friend? Rowan, wasn’t it?” Thief asked.

Umut watched him carefully, and he winked, “She’s on a family trip. Won’t be back for a while. Family serves under some Magister that takes these lavish vacations to Orlais.”

“We don’t need any mages,” Azar said, wrinkling her nose. The group was moving off, away from the warehouse. Thief had already closed the door, and had waved the Vashoth along. They paused in an alley, where Sulan lifted a cover leading to the sewers.

“Mages are useful,” Thief said. The group moved into the sewer passage, Sulan first so that the others could hand goods down to him. As the last of the barrels were handed down, a black haired man ran up to them.

“Thank the Maker, I thought I’d be too late to catch up,” he said, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“What took you so long, anyways?” Azar asked, letting Suledin go down into the sewers before her.

The black haired man grimaced, “The guard thought I was flirting with him.”

Azar roared with laughter, falling onto her back.

Thief patted the man on the back with a grin, “Well, Izzy, now we know who to send when Azar fails at seduction.”

“Please, don’t,” Izzy looked nauseous, “The guy smelled like dead fish.”

“Only good smelling men for you, got it,” Ylva said, before disappearing underground as well. Azar, still cackling, followed after.

“How about no one? How about I’m not sent to seduce anyone?” Izzy asked, going next.

Umut was hanging back.

Thief waved her forward, “Come along, dear Vashoth. Unless, of course, you’re afraid.”

“As if,” Umut replied, moving forward immediately to clamor down the metal rungs leading into the sewer.

Thief chuckled, the last one to make it down. The others had already started to move, and Umut looked around the tunnels warily.

“Don’t worry, you get used to the smell,” the elf said, leading the way after his crew.

“I know,” Umut replied, scowling at a rat swimming close to the raised platforms on the side.

“Oh? Spent a lot of time in sewers?”

“No, but it’s not like they smell much worse than the slums.”

“I want to disagree with you, but I’ve been in Liberati slums.”

“What do you mean you’ve _been_ in Liberati slums?”

“That… I’ve been to the slums?”

“Are you soporati, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Rowan’s _been_ to the slums. Hell, I’m pretty sure she’s _from_ slightly better slums. No pampered brat cares that much about little people. But you say you’ve _been_ to the slums, which means you aren’t _from_ the slums. So, are you soporati or what?”

Thief considered the question with a cocked brow, “You’re pretty smart for a kid for the slums.”

“You get smart or you get dead. Simple as that.”

“Some good instincts there. I’m not even Tevinter.”

Umut eyed the elf side long, crossing her arms, “Then why the shit would you stay here?”

“I get to meet the most interesting people,” Thief smirked.

Umut rolled her eyes, “You’ve got all these people. What the hell do you need me for?”

“You find talent in the strangest places. For instance, a Vashoth who figured out I wasn’t from the slums from one sentence.”

“What? Have none of your lackeys figured it out?”

“Sulan doesn’t care. Azar and Suledin let their feeling of kinship with their fellow elves cloud their judgement. Ylva just knows I bring in money. Isocrates has soporati prejudice. But you? You’ve got sharp eyes.”

“What by Andraste’s hairy ass is that supposed to mean?”

Thief laughed, “You like cursing, don’t you? Parents not let you do it at home?”

“My mother is none of your business, you… ass head.”

“Ass head? That’s a new one..”

“Will you get to the point already?”

“Well, you said it yourself. You either get smart, or you get dead. Having people that’ll watch your back is smart. Unless you think your mage friend is really going to stick out her neck for a Vashoth?”

“I…” Umut paused. Up ahead, the rest of Thief’s crew was hauling their goods up, through another manhole, “I guess you have a point. But I still don’t trust you.”

“Good,” Thief said, sauntering forward, “First lesson, don’t trust anyone. Especially if they want to help you.”

“I figured that much out on my own… ass head,” Umut said, jogging to catch up.

 

* * *

 

_“Don’t you want to stay here?”_

Rowan could feel the question as it thrummed through her bones. She was holding Everyn’s hand, the way she used to, as he led her through the forest. She looked up at him, and frowned, “That’s an odd question.”

“Why would it be odd?” Everyn asked, smiling kindly.

Rowan frowned at him. She couldn’t remember why that was an odd question, now that she thought about it. She stopped walking, and Everyn stopped as well. She tilted her head, “Why would you ask if I wanted to stay? I haven’t said I want to leave.”

“Of course not, da’len. I just wanted to make sure you did not wish to go rejoin your mother.”

“Mom told me to be good, to stay with you.”

Something felt wrong. Rowan let go of her grandfather’s hand, and took a step away from him.

“What’s wrong, da’len?”

“No… she… the first time, she said to be good,” Rowan said. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

“What first time? Rowan?”

“That’s… that feels wrong.”

“What does, da’len?”

“My name… “ Rowan took another step back, wincing at the pain in her head. She looked down at her hands, and thought they looked too small, “My name… it’s wrong…”

“Of course not,” Everyn said, “Your name is Rowan, da’len. What else would it be?”

“... Euphemia.”

The girl looked up, and magic crackled around her hands. She took several more steps back, “My name is Euphemia. I went to Tevinter. You are a demon.”

“Mm, true,” Everyn said, voice changing. The forests around them faded, turning into the rocky landscape of the Fade. The Keeper morphed before Euphemia, his hair catching flame until all that remained was purple flame. Horns sprouted from his head, and his skin turned freckled and purple. His tongue darted out to lick his blackened lips, “Clever little thing, aren’t you?”

“Leave me alone,” Euphemia said, energy still crackling around her hands. She’d never done a spell like it before, but electricity was Flaviana’s specialty. She’d dueled the other Altus a few times in the past month she’d been at the Circle, and though she might be able to pull it off.

The desire demon laughed, sitting down where he was, “You know, you’re much more polite than the other one. He shouted ‘begone’, like he was already the Archon. Of course, that was what I was offering him, but still…”

“The… other one?” Euphemia asked. The magic was clearly beginning to shape itself into electricity the right way, but the girl knew she couldn’t take her attention off the demon.

“Yes, sickly little thing. Quite imperious, though he is rather good at hiding it. I’ll be surprised if he survives his first assassination attempt.”

“... why are you just… sitting there?”

“Why not? You clearly aren’t interested, and I’ve already had one fight tonight.”

“But… you aren’t going to…” Euphemia waved a hand, not quite sure what it was demons did.

The desire demon in question rolled his eyes, “Try to tempt you further? How? With what? Your only clear desire is to return to your clan. Sure, you have a vague desire to help the elves here, but it’s nothing strong enough for me to use.”

“That… seems an odd thing for a demon to say.”

“Maybe to you. What do you know of us? You mages that call us and bend us to your will? Have you ever thought to talk to us?”

“Grandfather says you shouldn’t talk to demons because they always try to trick you.”

“Well, we’re talking now, aren’t we?”

“Are you going to trick me?”

“I suppose I could try,” the demon said, resting his chin in his hand, “It doesn’t seem like it would be very entertaining, though. You’re very straightforward.”

“I… oh no,” Euphemia said, turning. In the distance, the tell tale red glow of a rage demon appeared, soon followed by the molten body itself. The girl felt could feel the first ripples of anger around her, and it made her blood run cold.

Euphemia jumped at a crackling noise, and turned to see a small, frozen spider.

The desire demon froze a second with an errant flick of his wrist, “You know, you should really learn to control that fear of yours. It attracts unpleasant things.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I’m saving you for myself. Who knows?” the desire demon stood.

Euphemia took half a step back. The rage demon was still approaching, and more spiders skittered around her. The Altus could feel the fear pulsing around her, being magnified by the very demons feeding off of it. She wrapped her arms around herself, willing her heart to calm down so she could think. If she sent out a mind blast, it was likely to hit all of them, giving her enough time to… what? Run away? Run away where?

“What will you do, my dear?” the desire demon asked. He was watching the rage demon with a frown, “So direct; no subtlety, no art.”

Euphemia looked at the desire demon…. and paused. Theophanes had explained that somniari were very powerful in the Fade, and able to shape it to their will. Looking at the desire demon reminded her of how the dream had started.

Closing her eyes to push away the thoughts of fear, Euphemia focused on her memories of the Dalish camp. How the aravels would be set up, the smell of cooking fires, the hunters talking about their hunt for the day, the way the light would come through the trees…

Euphemia felt a sense of calm come over her, and opened her eyes.

She was no longer in the rocky landscape of the Fade. She was now In the Dalish camp, hunters and other members of the clan milling about. Forests rose up all around them, and there was no sign of the spiders or rage demon.

“Well done, da’len.”

Euphemia turned to see the figure of her grandfather, exactly as she remembered him. She blinked. He stood in the spot the desire demon had been. She tilted her head, “Why are you still here?”

“I’m curious,” Everyn looked around the camp, and up at the sky, “It’s not often you mages surprise me. You could have attacked us all with magic, and instead you altered the Fade to your will. Very impressive.”

“Thank you.”

Everyn, or the desire demon imitating him, cocked a brow at her, “You know that more will come, right? You’ll have to do better than just this.”

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

Euphemia shot up in bed, covered in a cold sweat. Her room was dark, and she closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, then released it slowly, waiting for her pulse to slow. When she was relaxed, she opened her eyes again.

The girl summoned a wisp, and dressed to its light. She put on the simplest robes she had, and dismissed the wisp as she stepped into the hall. Mage lights still lit the hall, and she wandered out of the apprentice dorms to the main hall.

“Excuse me.”

The templars jumped when she spoke, and whirled around in surprise. They looked down at her, then at each other.

“Yes?” one of them asked.

“Do you know where Senior Enchanter Metaxas is?”

“I… do you need her for something?”

“Yes. It’s important.”

“Can it wait until morning?”

“No,” Euphemia said, crinkling her brows, “I don’t believe it can.”

“... very well then. Follow me.”

Euphemia nodded, and trailed behind the templar as he led her through the hall, and across the opposite side of the tower. Senior Enchanter Metaxas’s quarters were on the top floor, with all the other Enchanters that worked with the apprentices. The templar knocked, gauntleted hand ringing on the bronze doors.

Hastam answered the knock, and his eyes landed first on the templar, and then down to Euphemia.

“Yes, sir?” the elf asked, eyes trained to the floor as he spoke to the templar.

“This apprentice says she needs to see the Senior Enchanter.

“My master has gone to speak with the First Enchanter.”

“It’s very important,” Euphemia said.

Hastam’s head turned in her direction, but he didn’t look up at her.  

“Do you know the way to the First Enchanter’s office, knife ear?”

“... yes, sir.”

“Good. The  you’ll take the apprentice there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The templar nodded, a quick jerk of his head, then turned and strode away.

Hastam stepped out of the room, and locked the door behind him. His eyes focused on the middle distance as he turned to Euphemia.

“It was Hastam, wasn’t it?”

The elf blinked, and looked down at Euphemia. She was looking him in the eye, waiting for a response, “Yes, Altus.”

“Euphemia is fine. Or Eppie.”

“Yes, Altus.”

“Will you get in trouble for taking me to see the First Enchanter?”

Hastam paused. He blinked at the altus, “I do not know, Altus.”

“I could go find another templar, if you think you might.”

“... no, Altus.”

“Alright. After you,” Euphemia held out a hand.

Hastam nodded. The elf began leading the way through the tower, and across the bridge that led from the apprentice tower to the main tower.

“Is your eye alright?”

“Yes, Altus.”

“And you can see well?”

“Yes, Altus.”

“I’m glad. I was worried it might not work.”

Hastam glanced back at Euphemia, but made no reply. They did not speak again as the elf led the way through the main tower, and up to the First Enchanter’s office. The doors to his office depicted two dragons facing each other, and shone like gold. Hastam knocked quietly, and waited.

One of the doors was opened only part way by a man clearly inebriated by his flushed cheeks. Euphemia studied him as he leaned against the closed door. He had thick black hair tied back, though some fell in his face, and dark skin. A large pink scar cut across his nose, extending across both cheeks. His brown eyes were so dark they were almost black, and they regarded Hastam and Euphemia with some small amusement.

“Des, your elf is here,” he called back into the room.

“What?”

Euphemia could hear someone move around the room, and after a moment the man stepped back so that Senior Enchanter Metaxas could take his place at the door. She appeared as prim and disapproving as ever, and frowned at first Hastam, and then Euphemia.

“Senior Enchanter, I need to tell you something,” Euphemia said, “It’s important.”

“It had better be, to disturb me at this time of night.”

Euphemia opened her mouth to speak, then looked around the hall with a frown. There were templars nearby, at either end of the hall. She looked back to the Senior Enchanter, “I don’t want anyone to overhear. It could be dangerous.”

“Why?”

“My father said not to tell anyone because it was dangerous. I don’t understand why, but I believe him.”

“... very well, come inside then.”

Euphemia nodded, and entered as the Senior Enchanter stepped aside. Hastam shadowed her at a nod from his master. The dark skinned man lounged on a couch in front of the generous fireplace. He held a wine glass in his hand, and watched the scene with interest.

“Drusus, this is the First Enchanter,” Metaxas said.

Euphemia curtseyed to the man, and he tipped his glass in acknowledgement.

The Senior Enchanter went on, “Now, what is it you thought so very important to tell me?”

“I’m a somniari.”

The First Enchanter nearly spat out his wine in surprise, Metaxas’s eyes widened a fraction.

“Well, that explains some things…” Bion said, setting down his glass and sitting up.

“Yes, it certainly does,” Metaxas replied, “And why have you decided to divulge this particular information?”

“Because the nightmares are getting worse,” Euphemia frowned, “A desire demon tried to trick me, and then a rage demon was approaching. And fear demons. There were fear demons, too.”

“And yet you aren’t an abomination?” Bion said, standing and stroking his chin with his hand. He had a small, neat beard he kept cut short.

Euphemia nodded.

Metaxas turned to the First Enchanter, “That is not the main issue here. We need to do something about this, before she _becomes_ an abomination.”

“Well, isn’t that much obvious?”

“... Bion, no.”

“What? Technically, she _is_ already successfully Harrowed.”

“Yes, and making her a mage officially will let everyone know that she is a somniari. Magister Drusus was correct in telling her that was dangerous.”

“I hate politics.”

“As do I. But I won’t put an apprentice in danger because of them.”

“... then punish her.”

“What?”

Euphemia kept looking between the two mages as they spoke.

Bion had reclaimed his wine, and strolled across the room to his desk. He leaned against it, a glint in his eye as he smiled, “Extra lessons with Enchanter Kokinos. For… oh, I don’t know, you come up with the _why_.”

“With Maximiliana? That’s… hm, clever.”

“And since she’s not a somniari…”

“There would be no connection, other than her and Vibiana working in the Arcanist Hall.”

“Exactly. Now you just need to come up with a reason for her punishment, and it’ll all be fine.”

“Disrespect, of course. My students already believe me completely irrational.”

“Despite your taking in an elf. Or is it in spite of? In any case. I’ll let Maxi and Ana know, you make the punishment publicly.”

“It will be done. Or perhaps…”

“Yes?”

“Well, she is out of bed after hours, after all.”

“Now who’s being clever?”

“Altus Drusus.”

Euphemia straightened at the sudden address. The intricacies of the conversation had been lost on her, and she had been trying to puzzle out the meaning of the exchange, “Yes, Senior Enchanter?”

“Why are you out of bed at this hour?”

“I…” Euphemia frowned. She looked at Metaxas, and then the First Enchanter.

The man smiled encouragingly, while the Senior Enchanter crossed her arms, waiting.

“I… wanted to see what the First Enchanter’s office looked like.”

Bion looked at Metaxas with raised brows.

The woman nodded. She walked over to Euphemia, and grabbed her by the arm, towing her out of the office. As she walked through the halls, leading her back to the apprentice dormitories, she made a show of lecturing Euphemia, “And you thought now, in the middle of the night, without permission, was the appropriate time to view the First Enchanter’s office? The audacity you display knows no bounds; I swear, even your brother showed more restraint than you. You’re an ungrateful disgrace to your station.”

She carried on as long as there were people to hear, and opened the door to the apprentice quarters with a blast of magical energy. It woke the others, who opened their doors to peek outside. Some quickly retreated to their rooms, while others stepped out to watch the spectacle.

Senior Enchanter Metaxas opened the door to Euphemia’s room and practically threw the girl inside, “As punishment for this insubordination, you will be assigned extra duties with Enchanter Kokinos attending to the Arcanist Hall. Maybe working with our history will teach you proper respect for it.”

Metaxas slammed the door shut. She turned on her heel, and the apprentices who hadn’t done so already quickly returned to their rooms.

Euphemia stared at her door, blinking. After several minutes, there was knock. Cautiously, the Altus opened the door.

Vinicius arched a brow at her, “What in the Maker’s name was that?”

“I… wanted to see what the First Enchanter’s office looked like.”

Vinicius waved a hand, and Euphemia backed up to let him in. He looked around, and shut the door behind him, “You need to work on your lying.”

“I-”

“Even if you were a better liar, I know my mother doesn’t punish people in public. She doesn’t believe in it. She says humiliation doesn’t inspire discipline, only anger. So if she’s punishing you in public, I know it’s a show. So. What _was_ that?”

“I… I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

“Of course not. Otherwise the Steel Rod wouldn’t lie for you.”

There was another knock. Euphemia and Vinicius shared a look, and the girl went to the door.

“What did you _do_?” Efstathios asked, looking half asleep and sour.

Euphemia looked around, then waved him inside.

The elf scowled at Vinicius, and the latter of the two waved.

Euphemia shut the door behind her, and turned to face them, “I went to Senior Enchanter Metaxas because… I’m a somniari.”

Vinicius whistled.

Efstathios blinked, “A what?”

“It’s a very powerful kind of mage,” Vinicius said, “And very rare. No wonder she wanted to make it public.”

“I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Father says it’s dangerous.”

“Of course it is. You’re competition,” Vinicius said.

Efstathios made a disgusted noise, “You altuses and your competition.”

“I’m a laetan.”

“You- wait, what?”

“You didn’t know? My mother was the first one in the family with magic; I’m a second generation laetan.”

“Whatever. What I want to know is why you’re being punished for being a somniari.”

“I am not sure.”

“It’s not like Enchanter Kokinos is a somniari,” Vinicius shrugged, “But she might know something, working in the Arcanist Hall.”

“I suppose we’ll see.”

“Listen, you’re right not to tell people about this. So, el-Efstathios, you can’t tell anyone, either.”

“Who would I tell?” the elf rolled his eyes, “You’re the one carrying on with another altus. But if you need my word, then fine, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Good. And Eppie?”

“Yes?”

“Try to be more convincing when you lie.”


End file.
